


encuentro lo que ayer perdí

by ourseparatedcities



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Character Study, Further Forays into the Deep Inner Life of: a continued series, M/M, cantera love, gentle baby old marrieds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 15:52:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10767477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourseparatedcities/pseuds/ourseparatedcities
Summary: By the time his mouth opens with the answer,  y nada más, he feels the promise of it down to his bones. Y nada más, like it’s been there all along, waiting for him. Y nada más, for him, forever.A feeling, a moment, the whole of his life bracketed between the before and after of it. How else to describe the rightness of that if not fate.





	encuentro lo que ayer perdí

**Author's Note:**

  * For [myconstant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/myconstant/gifts).



> [insert another antoine griezmann ENJOOOOOOY gif here] [princess curtsy]

Dani counts the space between breaths, flexes and releases his hands into fists. There’s an invisible strand of hair that makes his nose itch. He tries to swat it away, but it always disappears at the last second. He shoves his whole hand against his face, rubbing until the bridge of his nose feels raw and pink.

“Nervous?”

The lady with the clipboard smiles reassuringly at him, pats a hand lightly against his shoulder.

Dani shrugs, feels his palms sweat. He wipes them on his track pants, drops his arms to his side.

“Don’t be nervous. You just scoop up some gravel and deposit it into the frame. It’s easy and it’ll be over quick.”

He glances out at the front row, swallows audibly. Neat rows of _galacticos_ , mischievous grins twinkling like their namesakes against the black of their suits.  Roberto Carlos leans in to whisper something to Luis Figo that makes his cover his cackle with his hand. David Beckham smirks indulgently at them.

“It’s only a cornerstone ceremony, not a  _clásico_ .”

He’s sitting at the very end of the row, a place of honor. Age has hunched his spine, whitened his hair, wrinkled his skin. But neither gravity nor time have managed to make his presence any less commanding.

Nothing is ever _only_ anything in the presence of  La Saeta Rubia.

“Alright, that’s the cue. Go on.”

He stumbles a little from how hard she nudges him forward. The uneasy feeling of eyes turning in unison sends the hairs on the back of Dani’s neck rearing up in unison. Inside the din is: Raul’s voice, Guti’s delighted laughter, Roberto Carlos’ careless lilt.

He chances a glance under his eyelashes as he saunters forth. Di Stefano’s wide tie is slightly askew, deep blue silk, but the pin on his lapel is stock straight. Stark white against the rich navy, the Real Madrid crest catches the light, gleams beneath it.

The same as on Dani’s jacket, the sleeves _swish-swishing_ against coated fabric. When his hands curl around the handle of the miniature shovel, Dani sends up a silent prayer, lips pressed firmly together in concentration.

_If I only get one dream, let it be this: let me belong here. Let me be worthy of this._

It’s heavier to lift now, shakes a little in his grasp as he pours it into the frame. He blows out a breath, sticks the shovel back in the gravel. Polite applause and Guti’s shameless hoot of pride accompany him all the way back, make his steps lighter.

 

~

 

When he shows up to training later, Dani’s half-lost in a daydream when an elbow jabs into his side, makes him jerk away and lash out in protest. Álvaro’s unapologetic, swings his arm around his shoulder.

“So, how was it? Did you trip and fall? Spill gravel everywhere?”

Dani shoves him away lazily.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a shit friend?”

“And yet you keep coming back.”

“Blame the mister for sticking you in my rondo.”

The touch on his shoulder is light, barely stronger than the wind, but Dani feels it immediately, turns blindly into it.

“Hey, how’d it go?”

Nacho’s a little breathless, cheeks flushed from sneaking away from his own group, Dani imagines. He shrugs a shoulder, knocking off Álvaro’s arm as his body shifts towards Nacho.

“Alright, I think. This one has no faith,” Dani complains, motioning at Álvaro, “but I even stopped to wait for the picture after.” He can’t help the frown, hates the feeling of his whole body tensing in preparation anytime a camera’s around.

Nacho grins, curls a hand around his bicep and shakes him a little.

“I’m proud of you, pequeño!”

Dani can feel the blush creeping up his cheek when the shrill whistle rings out, Nacho’s head jerking towards it.

“Oops, gotta run, but ice cream after? My treat, to celebrate.”

“Oh, we don’t have to--”

“We’ll be there!” Álvaro interjects helpfully.

“No one invited you!” Dani laments, but to no avail.

He ends up sandwiched between them on a booth, the plastic squeaking under their thighs as they shove in. The cone crunches sharply under his teeth, the sweet orange flavor bursting onto his tongue. He must make a noise of pleasure because Nacho glances up at him.

His face does this thing Dani can’t explain, but he’s smiling a little, hand reaching up.

“You got some,” he motions, before picking up a napkin and carefully brushing at the side of his mouth. The texture is rough, but the touch is measured, soft. There’s a trickle of ice cream melting down the side, spilling over his fingers. But Dani can’t make himself pay attention, acutely aware of his lungs expanding inside his chest.

“Yeah, you got some,” Álvaro interrupts, shoving at Dani’s whole head.

“Oy, gentle!” Nacho chastises, napkin falling onto the table. He shakes his head, but Álvaro’s nonplussed, takes a giant bite out of his cone.

Dani wipes at the melted ice cream before sending Álvaro a look that clearly tells him he hasn’t decided _not_ to murder him yet. The gangly boy just shrugs, smirks into his next bite.

Underneath the table, Nacho’s knee knocks into his. Instantly, the tension leaves him in a long exhale, his body settling into the moment.

 

~

 

The first time they meet, Nacho smells like oranges.

It’s also his first time with the Alevín squad, but that thread of memory wounds itself around the rest. The faces are yet unfamiliar, the contours of them new, but football is football, always. Even here, the sun bearing down onto their faces, the formidable shape of Ciudad Deportiva rising around them, Dani’s feet feel steady, sure behind the ball. 

A kid taller than him by a head slips into the spot beside him when they line up, bumps into Dani’s elbow. He makes a little wounded noise, rubbing his side. Dani keeps his hands clasped behind his back, eyes forward, waiting for instruction.

“I’m Álvaro,” the kid whispers, arms dangling by his side.

Dani chances a sidelong glance, sees his face earnest staring down.

“Dani,” he mutters under his breath.

“How old are you?”

“Pay attention,” Dani mumbles, moving his mouth as little as possible.

“What?” Álvaro demands, clearly not getting the message.

“Pay attention,” Dani hisses. God, this kid is a nuisance.

“I am! I was just ask--” He’s frowning at him, bushy brows furrowed.

“Okay, goalkeepers, you know where to go. Defenders, over here please. Over here!” Jose with the clipboard gestures, face obscured beneath the brim on his hat.

Dani steps forward without hesitation, taps at the ball on the ground with the side of his boot.

“Eager, I see,” he comments, just the curve of his mouth visible beneath the depth of shadow.

Dani huffs bashfully, hands moving back behind him to hold his body still.

“Good. It’s good to be. Give everyone else a minute.”

He nods reluctantly, head hanging forward, weight shifting from one foot to the other. A ladybug inches its way defiantly across a blade of grass when he catches the crisp, tangy scent of it. His head tilts askew, the kid’s face framed against the sunlight glass of the building. There’s something vaguely familiar about his face, nags at a half-recalled memory. The kid glances sharply over, raises an eyebrow quizzically.

Dani drops his eyes, watches the ladybug climb onto the base of the ball. He moves his right foot, toe hovering when the kid calls out.

“Don’t!”

Dani starts. The kid glares at him in passing, kneeling down to pick up the ladybug on a single fingertip.

“I wasn’t! I was just offering…” he trails off, feeling suddenly silly at having to share his daydream.

“What?” the kid asks now, softer, both of them watching the ladybug crawl into the palm of his hand.

“Gonna offer her a ride.” He nods toward his shoe, then shrugs.

The furrow smooths out immediately.

“Oh,” he mouths, cheeks widening with the start of a smile. “Sorry then.”

“I’m Dani,” he offers. The ladybug’s nestled into the hollow of his wrist now.

“Nacho,” the kid replies quietly. It’s stronger now with their bodies closer as Dani follows the ladybug’s travels, the bright sweetness of the smell.

“Alright, defense! Now, we’ll start with the basics,” Jose announces in a booming voice.

The kid...Nacho jolts, the ladybug skittering to the jut of bone and flitting away. Dani catches the disappointment in his eyes, clear and unabashed. It verges on unsettling, the intensity of it, the way it draws out a pang in himself. His mind’s slogging through the past to place him, the hint of something more, something significant. He shakes his head irritatedly at himself, centers the whole of his focus on the ball at his feet.

The sun drags itself across the sky as they run through the drills, muscles old and new protesting together. There are parts of him he doesn’t even know the name of that ache. It’s thrilling, feeling out the limitations of his body with trembling fingers.

Even more so when Dani knicks the ball off Álvaro, ignores his hang-dog face as he sprints towards the goal. Sure he’s a defender, but football is football. In the end, what counts is this: the ball slotting home into the back of the net. That single patch of earth deciding the whole of the world. Everything begins and ends there, a handful of feet separating delight from defeat.

There’s a hoot of celebration on the other end and Dani blinks up, momentarily blinded by sunlight. He blinks and Nacho’s face flashes into vision, grin just as bright. It spreads through him, warm and insistent. He’s still thinking about it when they wind down, cold water sluicing down his throat. It’s not that he means to stare, but it’s still there, the nagging voice that insists he’s missing something. So he stares, searching Nacho’s thick eyebrows or his sharp nose or his soft mouth for an answer to a question he can’t voice.

It follows him home that night, irritates him while he’s chopping tomatoes while Pati washes spinach.

“Did the tomatoes insult you, Dani?” she teases, mouth quirking at the corner.

He feels the fault line of frustration on his forehead, slowly exhales.

“Ha. You’re funny.”

“What’s up? Something happen at training?” She shakes out the excess water, piles them into a bowl.

“No, nothing. Just...this kid. I feel like I know him or something, but I don’t know from where,” he explains, moving aside when she nudges him away from his tiny tomato massacre.

“School event?” she offers.

“No.”

“Pick-up games?”

“No.”

“Maybe you’ve just seen him around town or something?” she wonders aloud, placing the neat slices of tomato onto the spinach.

“No, it felt like...I knew him or something. Not just like I’d seen him before. Like I knew he was alright, nice even or whatever,” Dani mumbles the last bit, steals a piece of tomato to avoid looking at her. It’s unavoidable though when she elbows him in the shoulder.

“I know what it is,” she claims, mouth smug.

“What?” he asks warily in a flat tone.

“Maybe it’s destiny,” she answers, voice sing-song and eyes sparkling with amusement. “Maybe you were two were best friends in another life, and your soul recognized him.”

Dani’s sure that no one could fault him for flinging a slice of tomato at her head. She laughs, unrepentant, and ruffles his hair adoringly.

That night, he says his prayers in the same order as always: family, football, faith, friendship.

He lingers on that last one. It’s silly, he _knows_ it’s silly but.

He’s six and the Santiago Bernabéu  is on its feet, the collective breath held as below, Los Blancos fly forward in a flock. Dani’s leaning precariously forward, his grandfather’s hand holding onto his shirt. Someone slots Raul the ball and he doesn’t hesitate, his foot tipping back before sweeping it up. Dani’s heart in his throat, on the edge of a shriek of joy when it bangs against the crossbar. It’s ripped out of their hands, replaced with grief, before he slips in without notice. In a flash, Fernando Morientes throws the whole of his body forward, without hesitation or thought, his head banging into the ball. Sure enough, it finds its soars across, flies straight home.

It bursts from his mouth, echoes through the whole of the stadium, the entirety of Dani’s world. His grandfather tugs him forward, tight against his chest. Dani can feel his heart thundering against his chest, clings with every ounce of his might. They’re stamping their feet, they’re shaking their fists, they’re singing their names. Raul! Mori! Every heart thrown at the mercy of their feet. _Hala Madrid_ , his grandfather declares, dark eyes glossy as they meet Dani’s.

By the time his mouth opens with the answer,   _y nada más_ , he feels it the promise of it down to his bones. _Y nada más_ , like it’s been there all along, waiting for him. _Y nada más_ , for him, forever.

A feeling, a moment, the whole of his life bracketed between the before and after of it. How else to describe the rightness of that if not fate.

 

~

 

He’s pretty sure Álvaro’s not part of the deal, but he grows on him. Eventually he wears Dani down enough to invite him over. He shows up 20 minutes late with a cake that he thrusts into Dani’s hands. Or he thinks it’s a cake, but it barely registers because Dani’s busy gaping at him. His hair’s combed back, slicked down to his skull.

“If you say anything, I _will_ hit you,” Álvaro threatens. Dani doesn’t even bother trying not to laugh right in his face. Two hours later, he’s managed to ruffle it up some, though it makes him look like a disgruntled cockatoo. He’s also eaten all the cookies he and Pati made earlier.

The empty plate’s abandoned on the porch step, the ball slipping back and forth between them. Dani feints right, sees the immediate betrayal in Álvaro’s eye before he dashes right past toward goal. The garden gnome they’ve appointed goalkeeper does a terrible job of keeping his low shot out. When he turns around, Álvaro’s moved on to looking morose, raking a hand through his hair in frustration.

Dani nudges him lightly.

“Eh, come on, it’s the goalkeeper’s fault. He barely moved,” Dani reminds. Álvaro shakes his head, hair flopping onto his forehead. He opens and closes his mouth, fighting to explain.

“You ever feel...like it’s just…” Álvaro groans at himself. “Maybe it’s not going to happen? Maybe it’s not supposed to happen?”

Dani doesn’t pretend not to understand, but he can’t help the laugh in his voice.

“Álvaro, we’re only starting.” He means both the season and the journey, the slow, treacherous climb up the ladder of Real Madrid.

“I haven’t scored yet,” he bites out, chewing on his bottom lip.

“It’s been two games,” Dani reminds him. Álvaro’s taller, but Dani’s overcome with the impulse to mess up his hair some more. He flops onto the grass, strokes his palms over the giving softness.

“I just feel like sometimes, it’s not supposed to happen for me,” Álvaro admits, folding his long limbs down beside Dani.

“Do you want it to happen?” Dani demands of him, tilting his head to watch him. His whole face scrunches up.

“Who doesn’t want this?” Álvaro wants to know, aghast at the thought.

“Then we make it happen,” Dani tells him, smiling a little. He falls onto his back, watches a cloud dissipate into nothingness.

“You say it like it’s simple.”

“It is simple.” They’re the same age, but suddenly, Dani feels much older than him, older than even himself. “Just because it’s not easy doesn’t mean it’s not simple. Just because it hasn’t happened yet doesn’t mean it won’t. So, you just keep going until it does.”

He says it with the absolute conviction of all eleven of his years of life.

 

~

 

The first time Nacho comes over, he thrusts a dozen perfectly even orange tulips into his hands. 

“Theseareforyourmom,” he mumbles in a single breath. Dani gapes at him for a moment, the shifty way he keeps glancing around. He’s wearing a sweater vest. Dani’s never seen anyone under 35 wear a sweater vest.

“Uh, thanks, come on in.”

Dani’s carefully cutting off the very ends of the stems when he realizes Nacho’s standing stock-still in the middle of his kitchen, hands folded behind his back.

“What’re you doing?”

Nacho jolts a little, like he’d forgotten Dani was there.

“Umm, standing? Am I in the way?”

Dani meets his eyes over the tops of the tulips.

“You’re being weird,” he informs Nacho. Nacho’s brow scrunches up together in protest.

“I’m not!” he insists.

“You are, you’re totally being weird.” He places the glass vase in the middle of the island in the kitchen, leans in close enough to catch their subtle scent. He might have only known him a month, but he knows enough to tell when something’s off. It hits him then, the stiff set of Nacho’s body.

“Is it...did I do something?” Dani asks haltingly, hates the way he sounds unsure, the immediate clench in his gut.

“No!” Nacho interjects. “No, it’s not, you didn’t do...I’m not!” He stammers, something akin to panic in his voice.

“You are.” He leans back against the counter, watches Nacho’s arms fall by his side before he meets Dani’s eyes. “What’s up?”

Nacho shoves his hands into his pockets, shrugs. It’s startling, makes Dani feel like he’s looking into a mirror.

“You always come home,” he tells the floor.

“Well, they won’t let me sleep at La Ciudad,” he teases.

“No, I mean after. You don’t stay, you don’t hang out. You just...go home.”

Dani leans his elbows onto the marble.

“I hang out,” he tries.

Nacho’s head tilts skeptically.

“You always just go home after.”

Dani shrugs, folding his arms over his chest. It makes him feel a little defensive, trying to explain himself. He’s always loved being at home, the lived-in stillness of it. The soft sounds of his mother’s gardening, the quiet of his father’s study, the sound of Pati’s music ringing through the halls. Outside of La Ciudad and the Bernabéu , everything that’s ever mattered is within these walls.

“I like being at home,” Dani offers in explanation. Nacho’s watching his face now, the overhead light hitting his face as he meets his eyes. Today, they’re blue, lazy summer rolling of the sea.

“I know that,” Nacho acknowledges. “That’s why I wanted to…” He trails off, gestures at his sweater vest, the flowers. Dani can’t stop the laugh that rolls him out, feels a little giddy when Nacho joins in, a little bashful.

“You wanted to be your father?” Dani teases, staring pointedly at the sweater. “You didn’t have do any of that. Just, be yourself, man. It’s just you and me here.”

Nacho’s smile is a little sheepish, but his hands slide out of his pockets.

“Yeah, alright.”

“You wanna go kick the ball around in the back?” Dani offers, trying to put them back in a place that belongs to them both. Nacho nods eagerly.

“Alright, come on, you can borrow something of mine so we don’t get your sweater vest all dirty.”

“Thanks, Dani,” Nacho utters sincerely.

That night, after his prayers, he watches the glow-in-the-dark galaxy come alive on his ceiling. His mind won’t shut off, buzzing with the memory of Nacho throwing his arms in the air and doing a victory lap around the gnome. Looser now in a borrowed t-shirt, brighter and bolder with only Dani around. The silly smile he sends his way when Dani lobs the ball right into the garden gnome’s face. The day reduced to dregs of sunlight before Nacho finally, reluctantly, admits he has to leave.

And underneath it all, the tendril of warmth tucked beneath his ribcage like a secret: the knowledge that Nacho had cared about what Dani thought . If it’s the last thing he thinks about before falling asleep, well, that’s between him and the stars.

 

~

 

Each memory from la cantera becomes a preserved snapshot in his mind. Each moment hallowed by the simple fact that it was first. Everything that comes after layered over that immutable foundation.

In time, it becomes a blur of normalcy: school, training, games on weekends. He thinks back to that moment at the bernabeu, the chaotic roar of emotions in his throat, how overwhelmingly vibrant it was. And now, he understands that single crystalline instant of glory comes from this: each test he stays up too late to study for,  every training session when his legs protest as he forced them further than before. So much of life collecting in the mundane moments between.

The more it becomes ingrained into his day-to-day life, the more vital it becomes. Eat, drink, study, football. A single foundational element lost brings the whole structure down.

 

~

 

When they assign permanent numbers for Castilla, Dani slips in front of two other defenders to get to the front of the line. There’s a brief flicker of guilt, but when they hand him the kit set, the rest falls away. There is only this, the neat package wrapped in cellophane, the number 2 blazing on the back. It crinkles noisily in his shaky hands as he clutches it to his chest all the way to the locker room.

“No one’s going to steal it from you,” Álvaro teases, but he’s got his tucked tight under his arm.

He slides his thumb carefully between the plastic and the tape, lays the kit across his lap. The slippery fabric spills over his thighs, slides against his knees. He turns it over, the number resting against his bare skin, the crest blinking up at him, starkly bright against the crisp white. He dresses in absolute silence, the buzz of anticipation filling his head, the sound of the Bernabéu  before the anthem starts.

His hands fidget in his lap as the rest of him sits stock-still, mind racing through every half-remembered bit of advice. In the end, he knows, all games are the same. The ball, the grass on the pitch, the knotted lines of the net. Nothing stands on ceremony once you’re out there. But this time, he clasps his cold hands together, closes his eyes and sends up a silent prayer.

_Let me prove myself._

The rest will be up to him, his feet, his lungs, the limitations of his body. He won’t wish for those, will rely only on himself.

He fiddles with the tops of his socks before pressing his palms against his thigh to still them.

The bench shifts beside him, a knee knocking against the side of his. Nacho doesn’t say anything, and it’s strange, the comfort of his presence without expectations attached. If he goes the next 20 minutes without saying a single word, Nacho won’t interrupt, won’t get annoyed. He will sit there beside him, asking for nothing, giving Dani something immeasurably precious.

Dani moves his leg slightly until the sides of their thighs are touching from knee to hip, feels the heat through the fabric of his shorts. It spreads through him, warm waves lapping along the stretch of his skin. The way he feels at the end of the day, returning home and feeling the world settle into something that makes sense. Surrounded by it, safe enveloped within it. His next breath comes from deep within his lungs, exhale steadier than before.

When the mister finishes giving his speech and Dani moves to rise, he feels a hand on his knee, thumb and pinky pressing at the sides. The muscles pulsing alive between the touch, makes him nearly jump with it. But Nacho only squeezes, just once, like a reminder of what is there, muscles and bone and a body desperate to rise to the challenge.

It feels like the right start.

 

~

 

The first time he meets Lucas, he's hunched over, blood spilling out of his nose onto his mouth. Pablo's apologizing profusely, panic making his voice high, nearly on the verge of tears himself. his hand comes up to pat haphazardly at his chest as a physio pinches the bridge, tilts it back. When he smiles, his mouth is a massacre, white teeth stained with bright, thick red.

15 minutes later, he's got tissue wadded up his left nostril as he argues with the mister to let him on the training.

"The physios said I’m fine to go on."

"You took a ball to the face," Eduardo tells him in a monotone, hands gathered behind his back.

"It was just Pablo! How hurt could I be from  one of those shots?"

"Heeey!" Pablo pipes up in protest.

"Hey, bloody nose!" Lucas shouts back at him before turning back, arms gesturing emphatically. "I’m  fine, just don't punish me for his fuck-up."

"Language, Lucas."

"Mess-up," he corrects immediately, the corner of the mister's mouth quirking at the eagerness.

"15 minutes more and we'll see."

"Mister, please," he begs, earns himself a look.

"Keep talking and it's 25."

For 10 of them, Lucas watches from the sidelines, feet moving a ball around lazily, but eyes sharp, watching. He reacts to things even before they happen, reads the play before the other guy's even made up his mind.

"Fifteen," he shouts exactly on the dot, dashes full-speed into the wingers and knicks the ball off the first person he sees.

When they split off into big groups for the rondo, Dani's captain of one, Pablo the other. Usually, he picks Nacho first, Pablo picks Álvaro, and then they battle it out for the rest together.

Pablo wins the rock paper scissors, chooses first. As ever, he picks Álvaro, who's grinning dopily as he high-fives him. Everyone's eyes are on Dani and his mouth opens on instinct, the armband in his hand. In the end, it is that that decides, that pushes the name out of his mouth.

"Lucas."

 

~

 

Naturally, Álvaro has a strong reaction to it than Nacho, gapes at him all throughout practices, cuts Dani off at the knees with a vicious tackle. He nearly pulls a hamstring pulling his feet up, but the gangly kid barely looks sorry. It takes a disapproving frown from Nacho to make that happen.

Maybe that’s why it hooks him in the gut two days later when Nacho falls into a seat beside Álvaro on the Castilla bus. It twists in his belly, like vital organs tugged apart, makes his whole body freeze like it’s bracing for further impact. Only a hand lightly pressing at his back propels him forward, guides him to a seat three rows behind. He stares at the back of Álvaro’s head until the bus begins to rumble towards Valladolid.

“Hey.” It startles him despite its softness. Dani turns, realizes for the first time that Lucas is sitting beside him.

“Hey.”

“You alright, man? You looked a little pale there."

“Yeah, fine, just nervous about tomorrow,” he lies blatantly.

“No way, it’s exciting! What’s there to be nervous about?”

Dani stares at him for a long minute, fingers fidgeting against his mouth.

“You never get to make a first impression twice,” Dani states solemnly.

Lucas scoffs, but there’s no malice, only amusement to it. He shrugs, shoulders hunching up his little ears.

“So then make a better second one. Or a third one. You can have however many chances you got in you.”

This time when Dani gapes at Lucas, it’s with profound gratitude. He nods, and Lucas nods in return, chances him a smile.

“Thanks,” Dani whispers under his breath.

Lucas pats his knee lightly, and Dani tries not to stare three rows ahead.

 

~

 

It’s exciting, Castilla's first overnight trip. It makes the whole game feel more real than all the other away matches. Or it would if Dani could past the gnawing in his gut, the tension gathering somewhere at the back of his skull. Nacho has always understood him, even when Dani doesn’t understand himself. Always been able to see through to the heart. Maybe that explains the fear ballooning in his chest cavity.

When the list goes up for room assignments, it blossoms into terror. What if he’s assigned to someone else and Dani can’t explain, can’t fix it? Dani’s trying to press forward to find his name, on the tips of his toes, when Lucas hooks his chin onto his shoulder.

“Who’d you get?”

Dani inches forward just a little, but Pablo and a backup goalkeeper are directly in front of him.

“I can’t see shit,” he mutters under his breath, forces himself to ignore the sinking feeling. There’s no point in mourning something that hasn’t happened yet.

“You’re with me,” someone grumbles, Lucas’ weight moving off his shoulder. Álvaro sends him a pointed look before dragging him down the hall towards their room. Lucas looks even tinier in the shadow of Álvaro’s sprawling limbs.

He wedges himself between before finding his name, finger following it to the other sign.

“We’re together,” a voice informs him, breath against his ear. Dani nods blindly, shrugs his backpack closer and follows after Nacho.

"Do you care?" Nacho asks, hovering at the space, unsure of him. He carefully pushes the handle of the rolling case down, glances around the room.

"No, you pick, I don’t care, I’m fine with whatever," he rambles. He's focusing on the hint of scruff along Nacho's jaw without meaning to. He never means to, with Nacho. It all seems to just happen to them.

"Window, then."

His suitcase is perfectly packed, neat rows of carefully folded clothes and organized toiletries. Dani can't even remember if he brought his toothbrush. He moves with a cautiousness he's never had around Nacho, gives himself a wide berth as he putters around. He chances glances at Nacho every few minutes, but he's hanging up a polo. Dani considers reminding him they're only here for a day, thinks better of it.

He dumps his backpack on the floor beside the bed, flops onto it, legs outstretched.

"Not unpacking?" he asks and Dani blinks up immediately. Nacho zips the suitcase up again, leaves it standing between their beds.

Dani shrugs.

"Didn't bring a lot."

"Your clothes will wrinkle," Nacho reminds him, ever the adult in the room.

Dani feels his shoulders lifting to shrug, stops himself midway through.

“I don’t mind.” He bites the inside of his lip nervously, watches Nacho’s face for disapproval.

He chuckles instead, unknots a few of the threads twisting themselves up inside Dani’s stomach.

“Nacho,” he begins, has no idea what should come next. Everything inside of him tied up in a jumble of emotions without words, nonsensical and insistent.

“Yeah?” Nacho asks, relaxed face suddenly tightening as he watches Dani, like he’s picked up on some of the anxiety.

“Open up, cabrones! We have snacks!”

Álvaro bangs demandingly on the door to make his point. They stare at one another, Dani silently praying Nacho will say something first, something to set them right again. He watches Dani for another beat, doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for and lets in Álvaro. Lucas holds up his hands apologetically behind him.

“Here,” he grumbles, flinging a bag of crisps at Dani’s head harder than he needs to.

“Álvaro,” Nacho murmurs under his breath, a warning in the single word.

“Sorry,” Álvaro mumbles, voice muffled by the food he’s shoved into it.

“It’s good. It’s all good,” Dani replies, hopes it’s true.

The window's open but the breeze remains stubbornly still. Dani flops onto his side, nudges Álvaro with the tips of his toes.

"It's your turn, tio."

"Figo," he mumbles, groans into the bedspread. "And if you ever bring that up again, I absolutely will hit you."

"Why would I want bring up your giant crush on Luisito?" Dani asks, grin widening when Álvaro gives him the finger. Nacho hands him half a sandwich cookie, nibbles on the other half himself.

"You know you could just eat the whole one and eat half as many."

Nacho frowns at him, shakes his head. "It's half the cream." He hands Lucas, who’s fallen quiet, a whole one. He nods in thanks.

"But you're just eating twice as many," Álvaro reminds.

"Why, you counting?"

"Yeah, so pass me one. Anyway, my turn! Nacho, truth or dare?"

"I’m not getting out this bed. Truth," he confirms, pushing the bag except one to Álvaro.

"If you had to punch any team member, who would it be?"

"Why would I punch someone?"

"Have you met our teammates?" Álvaro mutters, crunching a cookie.

“They’re alright,” Lucas pipes up, smothering a yawn against his hand.

"They are. I'm not punching anyone.” Nacho shakes his head at Álvaro.

"Not even Saúl?"

Nacho pauses for a second, splits the last one in his hand apart. Dani's fingertips brush against his palm as he takes his half. He eats it in smaller bites, intently holds his body still. Nacho's staring at the bedspread with an absurd amount of focus.

"If he's punching anyone, it's probably you for barging into our room and stealing our cookies," Dani supplies.

"Please, you'd be bored without us." Lucas nods supportively, head pillowed against his arms.

“Or me at least,” Álvaro banters.

Dani glances at Nacho, who's feigning the same skepticism. His cheek twinges with the secret laugh he's holding off.

"Fine, I'll just fuck off then," Álvaro threatens and Dani scoffs at him. He grabs another cookie, splits it in half at the seam.

"Sit, it's Nacho's turn." He hands Nacho the top half.

"Mmm, Dani," he begins.

"Of course it's Dani," Álvaro mumbles under his breath. Dani pinches his eyebrow without a single ounce of sympathy for him when he yelps.

"Anyway, Dani. If you could be anyone at Real Madrid, who would it be?" His head's resting on his palm, tilted in Dani's direction.

"Myself," Dani retorts immediately. Nacho makes the snort-scoff sound he always makes when he's reluctantly amused.

"Besides yourself."

He thinks for a moment. La Saeta, wreathed in glory, full of legacy. beckham, resplendent and victorious. Raúl and his gravitas, the weight of madridismo resting on his shoulders. In the end, it's simpler than all that.

"Guti."

Nacho wasn't expecting that, leans forward a little, eyes on Dani's. They look grey today, winter skies through thick fog.

"Why?"

"He loves the club, he'd die for it. He never questions it, you know. He just knows, he always knew. He's never played anywhere but here. He's never been forced to leave home."

The cookie package rustles as Álvaro reaches for another, but Dani doesn't notice. Nacho's watching him, his eyes brighter than normal, mouth soft and open just a breath. More than anything, that's how Dani knows he's made the right decision.

Just then, Álvaro burps loudly.

Dani blinks to clear his vision before glaring at him.

"Oy, mister manners, truth or dare?"

"Dare," Álvaro snarks in challenge.

 

~

 

He’s been rummaging around in his backpack for five minutes now, is pretty sure it’s a lost cause.

“What’re you  looking for?” Nacho asks from the other side of the room. He’s wearing a hoodie that a little too big for him, sleeve hanging over his knuckles. It makes him look absurdly small and vulnerable, makes Dani feel suddenly feel protective of him.

“Toothpaste.” His tongue’s between his teeth as he shoves his hand all the way to the bottom, but no luck.

“Borrow mine?” Nacho offers, holding up the tube in his hand.

“Okay, yeah, thanks.” He shuffles into the bathroom after him, pajama pants trailing along the floor. He’s always holding out his toothbrush before he realizes he could’ve just waited. Nacho doesn’t seem to care, squeezes a perfectly neat amount onto the bristles.

Dani leans against the door as he brushes, stares at the ugly floral shower curtain. He hazards a glance at Nacho, who’s moving his toothbrush in perfect strokes, like he stepped out of some dental manual. Dani can feel a little trickle of toothpaste gather at the corner of his mouth. It makes him chuckle, mouth full. Nacho glances up at the choked sound, motions to the place where it’s spilling out.

Dani nods, face scrunching up because he _knows_ , but he hasn’t finished his bottom teeth. Nacho motions at the sink, eyes going wide in emphasis. He looks genuinely worried that Dani’s gonna just spit it out onto him or something. His ridiculous expression just makes Dani laugh harder at how nonsensical it is, all of it. It’s trailing down to his jaw when Nacho nudges him forward, Dani cracking up at the absurdity of it as he spits into the sink. Nacho’s chest shakes a little, like he’s huffing in amusement, makes him start laughing all over again.

Nacho’s joining him as he rinses out with his cup, their reflections watching one another’s silliness. He bumps Dani’s forearm, jerks his chin at the mirror.

“You still got some,” Nacho begins, gestures towards his mouth. It’s an immediate jolt, makes him feel suddenly all of 12 years old, curious as to what comes next. Except he’s 18 and this time, there is a part of him that knows exactly what he wants to happen. A part he’s tried to ignore and silence for longer than he’s been able to name it. It’s acute and immediate, need rising like fog until it obscures all other thought.

Dani watches Nacho’s hand lift in the mirror, the towel he wiped his own mouth with in his hand. It’s discordant in his mind, the gentle rasp of the fabric against the corner of his mouth, the reflection of it playing out before him. He can see Nacho’s eyes focused on his mouth, lips parting underneath the gentle pressure. Nacho’s hands fall away and it’s like being tackled from behind, the breath shoved out of Dani’s chest. For a second, he forgets how breathing works, his mind overwhelmed by the familiar smell of oranges. He flirts with it briefly, the thought of pressing his nose or his throat or anywhere else, to find where the scent is stronger. Nacho looks up at him in the mirror, face open and a little sleepy, eyes heavier now.

Would he let him?

Would it change things?

It bangs down like a gavel, the memory of falling into an empty seat on the bus earlier. A full body flash of fear at the phantom pang of fucking it all up. Anything, something is better than that, than the possibility of nothing.

Feeling the full weight of his body resisting, Dani takes a step back, nods politely.

“Thanks.” He slips out without meeting Nacho’s eyes again.

He slips under the covers, lays flat and uncomfortable on his back, arms and legs out straight. The soft rustling on the other side of the room tells him Nacho’s doing the same. He stares at the ceiling, searches the flawless surface for a crack. He counts down in his head. He says his prayers quickly, mouth barely moving. He curls his toes and releases to feel them loosen. He runs through the list of players on Real Valladolid, remembers the brief notes they’d gotten. Somewhere around thinking about what he's gonna have for breakfast, he lets out a heavy sigh, turns onto his side.

"Dani?"

His eyes adjust to the darkness in beats, a slant of outdoor lightning hitting Nacho's knees. The shape of his face familiar even in the dark.

"Yeah?"

"We okay?"

He feels the faint pinpricks of tears immediately, the line of Nacho's nose wavering in his vision.

"Yeah, Nacho. We're okay."

As he says them aloud, he hear the conviction in his voice, feels it almost from the outside. The exhale slowly whooshes out of him. In the end, he and Nacho will always be okay. Because if they're not, then it can't be the end. Dani won't let it be.

"Nacho?" he whispers, half hoping he won't be heard.

"Yeah?"

"I didn't mean it, yesterday. It didn't mean anything." He's not sure how to explain, that it was for the team,  that Lucas was who Dani wasn't. That, sometimes in his mind, he and Nacho were the same, that it didn't count because Nacho being on his team wasn't even a question.

“I know, Dani,” he promises, voice patient and calm. The comforter rustles as his arms slide out, hands resting under his chin.

He wants to let it drop, but if he doesn’t ask now, in the dark with the whole of Nacho’s attention focused on him, then he never will.

“Then, the bus?” he asks, voice small, nearly childlike.

Nacho makes this soft noise, somewhere between a protest and a chuckle.

“That was for Álvaro. He was being…”

“An asshole?” Dani volunteers helpfully.

“Moody,” Nacho corrects. “I didn’t want him to be mad, especially when I wasn’t.”

Dani nods silently, sliding his legs up, closer to his belly. The shape of their bodies arching closer towards symmetry.

“I wasn’t mad, Dani.”

When Dani exhales, it’s a little shaky, breath heavily wobbling out of his chest. He sniffles, blinks rapidly until the bits of Nacho’s face he can see right themselves again. The hint of a smile in the curve of his mouth, the light catching on the ends of his lashes as he blinks too. His eyes, gazing across at him, steady and sincere.

“Okay.”

When he breathes again, it feels clean, his lungs slowly inflating with air instead of lead. A little delirious after hours of the weight of worry dragging him down. He closes his eyes, rests a hand under his cheek.

He’s never been the fastest kid, or the strongest, definitely not the tallest. Everything he’s gotten worth having, he’s had to earn. Yet, he’s done nothing to deserve this.  Somehow still, Nacho watching him in the dark with infinite patience and understanding, is something he gets to have. It overwhelms him, the feeling of being inexplicably blessed.

“Dani?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re my best friend.”

His quiet huff of exhale is a little wet when it arrives.

“You’re my best friend too, Nacho,” he manages, voice cracking only midway through his name. The drop collects at the corner of his lashes, hangs off one before streaking down the side of his face. He turns his cheek, rubs it away against the pillow.

“We should go to sleep,” Nacho reminds, ever the cautious one.

“Yeah,” he accepts, but he’s not ready for sleep yet. He wants the moment to stretch into forever, the intimacy of empathy. He’s always felt his own vulnerability acutely, but here, safe in the knowledge that Nacho feels it too, it no longer carries the same ache.

The sliver of light through the gap in the curtains touches the tendrils of hair at his temple, makes them glow against the darkness. He wants, desperately, to run his fingers through, wonders if they feel as soft as they seem. He wants, desperately, many things that he may never have.

Nacho blinks and this time, his eyes stay closed, lashes cradled by his high cheekbones. Dani watches his chest rise and fall, the way he nestles closer into the pillow. He gathers all the tiny minutia of the moment close and clings.

If this is all he gets, it is more than enough.

The morning arrives bright and cheerful, the sun falling onto his cheeks, his shoulders. The warmth wakens him with the promise of infinite possibilities. In the locker room, his kit is laid out beside Nacho’s, stark white and freshly folded. Atop it is the captain’s armband.

For a moment, he wonders if there’s been a mistake. But a glance at Jose’s encouraging smile confirms otherwise. He dresses quickly, passes the captain’s armband between his hands as he counts down the minutes. His feet guide him to the tunnel on autopilot, body functioning as his mind slogs through sand. Just at the entrance, a hand cups his elbow, holds him still.

He doesn’t protest, doesn’t move, tries to remember to breathe when Nacho takes the armband from him. The smile works its way up to his eyes. Jade reflecting the glow of a midsummer day. Slowly, he slides it over Dani’s arm, then up over his elbow, finally to his bicep. Dani indelibly feels every inch of the sides of his fingertips brushing his bare skin. Somewhere in the middle, it fits, settles over the curve of muscle.

Nacho steps back and the corners of his eyes crinkle up with excitement. Dani feels it like a living thing crawling inside of himself, curling low in the center of his belly. He pats his handiwork and Dani feels the heat seep into his skin.

Nacho nods, steps into the tunnel first, Dani’s steps sounding behind him in synchronicity.

At the entrance to the field, Dani himself bask in the fragile, fleeting moment. Hope gathers as light as air inside of his lungs as he takes a breath. If he wants this, he must earn it. Nothing else will do.

Y nada más, he promises, steps forward into the sun.

 

~

 

It starts at a sprint and it feels like it might never stop. At times, it feels exactly like la cantera, the trainings, the body stretching towards the limits of itself, the team falling into a rhythm. But the stakes aren't just high, they are real. Every game grows teeth, drags them by the scruff by their team. Each time they win, it blooms inside him, branches into plural joys and hope. Each loss strips him down, but the roots remain deep, immovable.

The last game of the season arrives sooner than any of them are expecting it. Dani can't sleep the night before, paces the floors of him room for an hour before collapsing onto the bed. He considers going for a run, or practicing free kicks with his best trainer, the garden gnome.

He groans in frustration when the phone screeches awake, shrill against the silence of midnight.

"Hello?" he asks, but there's only one person it could be.

"I knew you'd be awake," Nacho announces, a little smug at being proven right.

"You're clearly projecting."

"You wanna talk about it?"

"Do you?"

He wonders what there would be to say that the other doesn't already know,  isn't already feeling. The season and promotion balancing on a knife's edge, the whole of their future resting on 90+ minutes. Out loud, he imagines it would sound absurd.

“Dani?” His voice smaller than usual, unsure.

“You’re a good captain.”

The compliment flushes his cheeks, pink beneath the scruff of a long day. It loosens a knot inside of himself he hadn’t even realized existed.

“I try.”

A brief rustle of fabric and then the sound of settling, Dani falling into his own bed. There’s spiderweb in the corner that garners his attention.

“I keep trying to tell myself that whatever happens tomorrow will be fine, but.”

“But.”

Neither of them say it, but it sags in the air like low-hanging fruit. Most people don’t get a first chance to prove themselves worthy of Real Madrid. No one gets a second.

Dani wiggles higher up on the bed, runs his fingers over the texture of his headboard.

“We just can’t lose.”

“Okay, so we won’t lose,” Dani confirms.

“Right. Okay. Good. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that earlier,” Nacho snarks.

Dani glares silently at him for a second through the phone.

“I know anything can happen, I know. But, it’s our way.”

It’s taken nearly a year, but saying “our” no longer feels foreign. He continues.

“Remontada is our way. We don’t give up, not until the very last second, especially when we’re losing. Because we believe that in the end, we should win. So if we’re not winning, then that can’t be the end of things.”

It was nearly a decade ago, but it flashes clear in his mind immediately.

_“Just because it hasn’t happened yet doesn’t mean it won’t. So, you just keep going until it does.”_

“You’re awfully sure of yourself,” Nacho retorts, a long pause of breath and then the tail end of a yawn on the other end.

“I’m sure of Madrid,” he confesses sincerely. Discovers that he means it. He knows that even if they do succeed, in the end, they’ll all be mere blips in the long and storied history of club. It will be fine with or without him, but the relationship isn’t interchangeable.

“See, that’s why,” Nacho tells him, smile tucked between his words.

“Why what?” Dani wonders, echoes the yawn as he rolls onto his side.

“You’re a good captain.”

“Did it work?” he wonders out loud.

“A little.”

“Yeah?”

“Mostly I know I have to sleep so that I don’t mess it up for you,” Nacho says, mostly light and teasing. Dani wonders if he’s imagining the part that sounds genuine.

“Or Álvaro. He’ll cry about it for weeks.”

“And you’ll only cry for a few days?” Nacho taunts.

“Don’t make me cry at all, Nacho.”

His laughter echoes out of his mouth, tumbles into Dani’s ear.

“Go to sleep, Dani.”

“You first, Nacho.”

In the morning, that is how they head out onto the pitch, Nacho first, then Dani closing the path. When Pablo rushes a defender and sweeps the ball through for a goal, he’s the first one there by Dani’s side, arms swinging tight around his shoulders.

At the end of the game, victorious and glowing with it, Dani remembers: his chin resting on Nacho’s shoulder, whole body propelled forward on the tips of his toes as he clings. Behind him, the faces of his family on their feet in exuberant celebration blurring as Dani tucks his face into his collarbone.

Bright and sharp, groves of oranges ripening on a midsummer breeze. There, everything feels possible. Anything might be.

 

~

 

They're in the kitchen, his mom's laughter spilling into the room at his grandfather's story, when the phone rings.

"Ehh, what did we say about Sunday phone calls?" his father chides mildly. Dani blinks down at the number on the screen, feels his pulse skitter at the start before sprinting erratically.

"They're supposed to call today," he answers, mouth moving but his brain has frozen completely.

They stare at one another, silence unfolding itself over the kitchen.

"You should probably answer," Pati reminds them all belatedly.

Dani sprints into the backyard, phone nearly dropping from his unsteady hand, but he manages.

Two minutes later, they all turn in unison as he returns.

“They want to see me. Tomorrow. At noon.”

For a long second, no one speaks, no one moves. There’s no small amount of panic bubbling up in his throat, but he tries to keep it down. Fiercely, he wishes Nacho were here to give voice to whatever it is he’s feeling that threatens to overwhelm this. Still, he’s desperately glad for this, his family, the promise of their presence here, now and always.

In the end, it is his grandfather who steps forward, cups a hand around his cheek.

“It is only the beginning, Daniel, but already I am so proud.”

His beaming face, eyes full of faith and adoration, crinkling at the corners. Wrinkles smoothing away as Dani’s vision wavers with the pinprick of tears. It slips down his cheek when he turns his face into his hand, leans in until he’s slipping his arms around his waist.

“Thank you.” It’s muffled and wet against his shoulder, but his grip is strong as he holds on, hopes to be worthy of this as well.

 

~

 

Beside the car the next morning, his mother kisses his cheeks, then runs a hand over his hair. She’s on her tiptoes when she does it, but the gesture makes him feel small suddenly. His grandfather squeezes Dani’s hands reassuringly. They’re gray and mottled with spots, but Dani’s never been more grateful for them. Pati ruffles his hair and he shoves at her, which is comfortingly familiar.

Inside the room, behind the desk, lounges Nicolás Martín-Sanz. His chin’s resting on his knuckles, expression deep in thought. Alberto Toril is beside the window, hands shoved into his pockets. He turns when Dani and his father enter the room. Martín-Sanz rises immediately, smiles welcomingly.

“Ah, Dani, qué tal?”

“Bien, bien,” Dani manages, voice sounding foreign to his own ears.

They make their way through the greetings with Dani’s heart thudding against his sternum, chest hollowed out of anything but anticipation. It’s nonsensical, the whole of his future resting upon what happens inside of these four walls. He sinks into a chair when they’re motioned to sit, stares at the Castilla director’s face.

“Well, Daniel, first, congratulations on the promotion to Segunda División.”

“Thank you,” he accepts, clammy hands curling into one another on his lap.

He forces himself not to hunch down and disappear.

“The mister did most of the work,” he adds, nodding towards Toril.

Martín-Sanz smiles, a small knowing little thing, and speaks.

“Now, let’s discuss why we’re here. What we all want, ultimately, is to do what’s best for both your future and the club.”

The mister’s face looks as it always does in training, like he’s seeing things before they occur. He stares at the surface of Martín-Sanz’s desk, doesn’t meet Dani’s eyes. His anxiety ratchets up another level, a shiver flitting through his body.

“We’ve spoken about this for a long time, and we think there are two options you can choose.”

Something coils at the base of his spine, the chill rising from the small of his back. It skitters up to his shoulderblades, settles along his shoulders like an old friend.

“You can stay at Castilla as captain for another season.”

Dani’s hands clench in his lap, knuckles going white from exertion. He blinks rapidly, finds himself staring at the wavering line of Martín-Sanz’s lapel.

“Or, we can accept any of the loan offers we’ve received for you from other clubs.”

His mouth keeps moving, but the faint buzzing inside of Dani’s head grows loud, deafening. Eyes straight onward, forcing himself not to cry by sinking his nails into his palm. It hurts, but it’s localized, lets himself focus on the sharp edge of pain.

A hand rests on his arm, and a voice finds its way through. His father’s eyes meet him, concern reflected back in the gaze that looks so much like his own.

“Yes,” he accepts blindly. His father’s brows knit together.

“Are you sure?” There’s worry there, but he knows whatever he chooses, they’ll support him. He’s grateful, but in the end, it won’t matter what the choices are. It is not the first team, the truth sinking into his belly like a stone. He tries to float, to stay aware beyond the fog of shock, but the hurt is enormous. It balloons inside of his chest, pulsing acutely with each breath.

“Yes.”

Toril and Martín-Sanz nod in unison, and in that moment, blind and bereft, Dani feels suddenly small and hateful.

 

~

 

The breeze is cooler now with the promise of evening, dusk unfolding over the blue sky. Dani shoves his hands into his pockets, the beads of sweat on the back of his neck now turning chilly. A few meters ahead, the gold-leaved maples stand firm beside the tall reeds of bamboo. Behind them, bright blossoms sprawling lazily in the lingering summer sunlight. Intricate chrysanthemums, bushy papyrus plants, and artfully arranged rows of roses mingle together cheerfully.

Just at the edge, a section of tulips swaying in the wind. Most day, he lingers beside these for a moment, touches the side of his shoe lightly against them on the way home. There are far worse places to be exiled than Leverkusen, he supposes.

He squats beside them today, fingertips running over the bloom. The orange limned in the dying light of day. A quick glance around before snapping it at the base, tucking it into his pocket on the way home.

The curtains in his apartment are thrown back when he returns, shadows moving across the bare wood floors. He collapses onto his couch, twirls the stem in his hand. There’s nothing in the fridge for dinner, so he’ll probably need to order take-out at some point. He’s sure there’s beer somewhere, but that would require getting up. His body protests this option immediately.

His phone buzzes in his butt pocket, jolts him before he checks the name.

“Hola.”

“Did you get the package?” his mother demands to know by way of greeting. He chuckles, helplessly fond.

“I said I would call when I did.”

“Well, the cookies are going to go bad soon.”

“I hope you wrote the mailman a letter telling him so.”

“Don’t tease me, Daniel.”

“I’m sorry, I know cookies are a serious business.”

She scoffs at him, and he can see her perfectly, waving her hand dismissively at his mild sarcasm. Perched in her armchair, steaming mug of tea on the side table beside her. It aches inside of him, memory throbbing like a live thing.

“Tell me about your day.”

“It was the same day as yesterday, and the day before.”

“No off day?” The question followed by a long sip.

“Tomorrow. I might buy a bed for the guest room.”

“Don’t make me sleep on that ugly couch again, Daniel,” she orders.

“I offered you the bed!”

“Please, you needed the sleep.”

He shakes his head wryly, then smiles up at the ceiling.

“When are you coming to visit again?”

“Four weeks from Sunday.”

The pang is no less painful for its familiarity.

“I’ll make sure there’s a bed by then,” he promises.

“Good. Did you sign up for German lessons yet?”

He pauses, trying to remember the excuse he’d come up with earlier in the day.

“Daniel.” She draws out the last syllable of his name in warning.

“I’m not...I’m just not ready yet.”

She doesn’t speak for a minute either, another drink of tea.

“I will, soon,” he compromises.

“As your grandfather says, nothing is forever.”

He knows she means Leverkusen, but all Dani can think about is the last moment, Nacho’s arms around his back and everyone else in his heart close enough to touch. He knows nothing is forever.

“I’m thinking about getting a plant,” he tries in the hopes of distracting her.

“Start with a cactus. Or maybe a fern. A fern might be nice, I think you could care for it. Or maybe a--”

By the time she’s done, Dani’s pretty sure she’s listed everything in the horticultural encyclopedia, rambling about the choice between planters on the windowsill and pots on the balcony.

"Mama, I have to meet some of the guys for dinner," he lies, hates how he can almost feel her searching gaze on his face. But she is far enough away to believe.

"That's good, Daniel! Be good, don't stay out too late."

"Yes, mother."

"I love you, osito."

"Love you, mama."

He gets up long enough to scrounge through the drawer for a menu of food that's at least slightly familiar. When it arrives, he eats most of it standing up at the counter. On the tv in the living room, Celta Vigo is winning against Espanyol. It's as close to home as he can handle just yet, the Spanish announcer's unenthusiastic voice recapping the highlights.

"Also today, Real Madrid bea--"

He turns the tv off completely, darkness filling into the room through the still-open curtains.

That night, he says his prayers quickly, haphazardly. Ending with, "and let me return home." He tries not to dream of a sea of white, the wave singing and screaming as it rolls over and crashes into him, carries him away.

 

~

 

It screeches angrily into the night, rudely shoving him out of sleep. His palm slaps blindly down on the night table, fumbles before he finds his phone.

"Hello?" he demands, panic rising bitterly up his throat.

"Dani!" the voice exclaims. He flinches. He can't help it, the immediate, visceral reaction to the simultaneous stimulus of awareness and despair.

"Hello."

The clock blearily reads 3:28. his mind jogs into the present, throwing an arm over his forehead.

 

“Are you asleep?” he chirps.

Dani squints suspiciously into the darkness, realization dawning slowly. In the background, the muffled thump of bass grows louder and then quieter again, a door thudding against its frame.

“I was, but not anymore. Where are you?” Dani wonders aloud, instead of asking the real question.

“I’m in Madrid. Out, in Madrid. I don’t know the name of this club. Álvaro picked it. You want me to ask him?”

If he wasn’t sure before, he is now.

“No, no, you don’t have to ask Álvaro. Have you been drinking, Nacho?”

A long pause, Dani rubbing his knuckles into his eyes to wake himself up. He’s not fully convinced he isn’t hallucinating this. It’s always a shock to the system, deprivation followed immediately by immersion. An entire calendar page has turned since he last heard Nacho’s voice.

“Oh, right, you can’t see, but I was nodding,” he mutters in explanation. “Only a little bit. Like three.”

Dani’s never seen him have more than a glass of wine at dinner at most. It’s ugly and small, but jealousy never bothers to dress itself up differently. Somewhere 2,000 miles away, Nacho is getting drunk for the first time, and Dani is not there. It strikes like a slap to the face, the reminder that more than football that was lost.

“You should drink some water.”

It’s horrifying, the sudden strictness in his tone, the polite distance. He’s never kept Nacho at arm’s length, never knew how until it was necessary to survive.

“I will, don’t worry,” he remarks airily.

Another pause stretching taut between their separated hands. Dani takes a steadying breath, forces himself to ask.

“Hey, Dani, hey.”

“Hey, Nacho.”

“You avoiding me?”

His hand clenches on the comforter, lands a futile fist against the thick fabric.

“I didn’t mean to,” he mumbles into the phone.

“You did,” Nacho tells him on the other end of line, a little sing-song, but no less clearly.

Another exhale lost to the dread ballooning inside his belly. He can’t force out the words necessary to make him understand, cannot make out the shape of them.

“I didn’t want to.”

“You didn’t even say goodbye.”

Dani rests the phone against the pillow, buries his face into the cool untouched side. Once he’d signed the agreement, the days had blurred together, all lost to the swell of sorrow. He had tried, over and over and over again, recited the words in mirror, written them down on cards. How do you explain losing a leg, or a heart? How do you make sense of your own loss long enough to tell someone else?

“I didn’t know how.”

It’s as close to the truth as he can afford to get.

“You open your mouth, Dani.” It’s accusatory, hurt tucked under the hint of anger.

“I couldn’t.”

“Dani.” His voice is so soft, so close to his ear that it feels like his breath against his cheek. Dani can’t think of a single reply for that.

“Dani,” he whispers, the sound like a plea in the dark.

“Nacho,” Dani whimpers, feels the clogging heaviness in his nostrils, the sudden demanding pinprick of tears.

“It’s just me, Dani. You could’ve told me anything.”

The sob fights its way out of his mouth before he can swallow it down, muffled against the pillow cover. _Could’ve_. Dani can feel his lungs squeezing in a vice grip at the possibility of only belonging to him in the past tense.

“I’m sorry,” Dani whispers wetly.

“Good. I missed you, _tonto_. Did you miss me?”

 _More than football_ , he thinks. _I miss you like a place, like being whole. I miss you like home._

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Nacho states firmly. He sighs on the other end of the phone, and Dani wonders what he looks like now, the expression on his face. The color of his eyes when slightly drunk and honest. Every mundane detail made important by their absence. Dani sniffles into the cover, considers blowing his nose on the corner.

“When are you coming home, Dani?”

His fingers curl into the sheet, helpless, desperate. He’s spent an entire month avoiding asking himself that question, the voice in his head childish and terrified.

“I don’t know,” he breathes, a tremble in the space between words.

“Not for football, for me.”

If there was any oxygen left in the room, it all empties out in a whoosh.

“Nacho.”

“Come home, Dani,” he demands impetuously.

And there, in the middle of the night, with Nacho’s voice refusing to let him believe otherwise, Dani thinks he might be able to.

 

~

 

It takes him another week before he signs up for language lessons, but the next day, he sticks around for lunch. Lars stares at him for a minute when he sits down beside them, and dani feels a bit like his first day of school again, the nerves ratcheting up before the Karim grins.

"Schnitzel," Lars announces, points then smiles like it's a full sentence.

"Qué?"

"Schnitzel ," he repeats patiently like dani's an idiot child. "You like?"

He seems to realize something, and then holds up a thumb before repeat.

"You like?" Thumb up.

"Oh! Si, I like." Dani holds up his thumb too, feels completely stupid.

"On the bright side, you both look equally stupid," Karim announces in Spanish, then repeats it in German, Dani guesses.

Dani chuckles sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. Lars gives Karim the finger instead.

He laughs aloud this time, genuine and joyful, and Karim sends him a smile.

Lunch ends more quickly than Dani expects, but he's smiling as he grabs an extra water. It grows wider when he sees them hanging back for him, all heading into training together.

 

~

 

It's a dreary Tuesday morning, clouds creeping in with the dawn, rain looming at the horizons. He drinks his coffee in bed, poring over grammar notes under the covers. There's another hour left before they need to be there for the game. The words come more easily to him, especially once he learns, _halt die Klappe_ , which he’s sure is the most important phrase.

The rest follows the way of the language, slowly slipping into a sense of ease. He supposes anything can become normal if it must. On the windowsill, a single lavender succulent watches over the arrival of storm clouds.

Lars hits his back too hard like he always does when he gets to BayArena, grinning with that same full-force enthusiasm he carries every game.

 _“Heute ist der Tag!_ ” he declares.

“ _Ja.”_ For the first time, the words resonate, the sound of them familiar in his head now. “ _Heute ist der Tag_.”

He’s sure he’s stressed the wrong word in that sentence but Lars beams down at him, smacks his arm excitedly.

“ _Toll_ , Dani!”

Dani nods, cheeks warming at the praise.

He’s as quiet as ever on the bench, thoughts running through anything that could, might, will happen on the pitch. Like the days, the games bleed together, defeats bookended by hard-fought victories, the ebb and flow of players finding their rhythm only to fall out of step with someone else. Whatever foreignness his mind feels, his body remembers the motions, smooths over the gaps.

 

A hand swats at the side of his thigh, interrupts his train of thought.

“Come out with us tonight, Dani.”

Karim sinks onto the bench beside him, palms pressed flat against the smooth wooden surface. He’s wearing a thick black sweater and jeans, looks comfortable and relaxed. His body’s lean underneath the clothes, and his eyes are dark, warm with invitation. Dani finds he’s staring at his mouth while he waits for his answer, and not for the first time.

“I’ll see,” he hedges, and Karim squints, thick lashes fringing his gaze as it considers Dani.

“Why not?” he asks, voice lower than before.

Dani shrugs, feels heat rise up the back of his neck.

“Come on, Dani.” He leans in, rests a hand on the bare curve of his knee. The warmth of his palm seeps into Dani’s skin. “Live a little.”

His eyes are half-lidded and Dani becomes acutely aware of the side of his pinky brushing absentmindedly against his knee. He swallows thickly, audibly, the air sticking inside of his throat.

“We can let the scoreline decide.” He’s not sure whose voice that is, challenging and a little arrogant, but it comes out of his mouth before he can stop it.

The corners of his eyes crinkle up, makes him look a bit like a smug cat.

“Deal.”

His grip squeezes on his knee, and Dani has to smother the gasp before it leaves his mouth.

He wanders off to greet a few of the other regulars, and the well of admiration Dani feels for him rises. It speaks to his character that he still comes in most game days, does his little bit of supporting the team despite his injury. Dani watches him hug Lars, and then glance back at him, the wink accompanied by a knowing twist of the lips.

The game’s frenetic, rain making the grass slick and doing half of Dani’s defending for him. 15 minutes in, he’d be glad for a draw. But Lars is wearing the armband and when he finds himself on the edge of the box with the ball falling perfectly to his feet, he swings his foot back. Dani knows it’s a goal the moment it soars above the defender’s head, the scream rattling out of his throat before it’s echoed by the crowd. When the rest of the team swarms around him, a messy pile of limbs, Dani closes his eyes, lets himself pretend all bodies are the same.

 

20 minutes pass and Hoffenheim refuses to let up, playing like a team that demands a draw. The ball sneaks away from Firmino, bouncing right toward Dani. Even before it reaches his feet, he can see the perfect path between himself and goal. He sprints down the side, boots barely touching the ground, light with purpose. Two of their midfielders turn into him but he feints, keeps possession and slips through. It’s selfish, maybe, but desire bursts alive inside of him: for this goal, here, for this team. For the promise in Karim’s words, his touch. For a moment wholly untouched by loss or absence.

 _Live a little_ , Karim’s voice sings through his head. He pulls his leg back, bangs the ball home.

 

~

 

Dani feels the laugh bubbling up in his belly, buries it against Karim’s sweater. It’s thick, soft against his mouth, and he nuzzles into that feeling, lets himself be pulled in by the steady hands on his back.

“You’re wearing a sweater,” he shouts, trying to be heard above the pounding techno rhythm.

“What?” It’s muffled against his hair, breath huffing against his ear.

“You’re wearing a sweater. To a club. You’re wearing a sweater inside a club and I’m in Germany,” he explains, feels the third drink roil inside his belly. Maybe it’s four, he’s not sure anymore. Everything feels sugar-coated and fuzzy, two steps removed from his own body. He can feel sweat beginning to form on the small of his back, wonders how Karim seems to be fine.

He tilts his head back, looks up into his face. The strobe lights hit his lashes, then flicker away. His eyes turn red, then yellow, then green. Finally, blue. A manufactured brightness, not something warm stoked deep within. Not the sea, not the sky, not ever-changing shades of green and blue. Longing aches inside of him fiercely, suddenly robbing him of breath. Karim seems to notice, cups a hand around his shoulder.

“You okay, Dani?”

He lifts up onto his tiptoes.

“Kiss me,” he whispers, tongue flickering wetly against his earlobe.

Fingers digging into his back and dragging him away, Karim’s pupils swallowing the whites.

 

“Christ, not here.”

He’s not sure how they make it outside, but the November air is bracing, sneaks chilly fingers beneath his his shirt. One minute, he’s blinking owlishly up at Karim and the next, his wrists are held against the rough brick side of the building. His lips fall apart on a whimper, the whole of his body arching wordlessly in request. Karim presses his torso forward, and Dani’s not sure if the tremulous thudding is his own heart or someone else’s, but he rocks forward into it. His wrists twist just to feel the sharp scrape of brick against the delicate flesh, that rough edge of something vibrant, achingly alive.

The hand on the bare skin of his waist slides up, fingertips stroking against his cheek. He pulls away and Dani’s whining, half-blind when he finally opens his eyes. Karim’s watching him, knuckles brushing gently against his jawline, then up. His lips are surely kiss-swollen, bright red from the pressure of his mouth. Slowly, he drags his fingers down along the side of his throat, all the while his gaze captures each movement of Dani’s face.

When he leans down to kiss him again, it’s light, a brush of lips. Tenderness scrapes through him, leaves him feeling raw. It wounds him, heart pinned on a map a thousand miles away. Karim notices when his mouth stops moving, when his restless body slumps back against the wall.

“Did I?” he asks immediately, concern etched into the handsome corners of his face.

“No. No,” he starts, the words wavering beneath the wellspring of emotion. “It’s not you.”

Carefully, Karim releases his arms from above his head and they swing uselessly by his side. His lower body is still curving towards Karim, reaching for him. Dani watches his chest rise and fall, remembers the promise of strong muscles beneath fabric just seconds ago. It would be easy to slip his hands underneath and touch, to float away on the lush wave of sensation. His body always guiding the way.

He blows out a breath instead, the back of his skull resting against a rough brick.

Karim reaches forward, brushes the pad of his thumb along the curve of his bottom lip.

“It’s okay, Dani,” he assures. His hand falls away and Dani wants to follow after.

“I’m sorry.”

Karim chuckles, a small sound of wry amusement. He shakes his head and then leans in to brush his mouth against Dani’s temple. He smells warm and inviting, the faint hint of something sharp like clove or cinnamon. The scent of comfort, acceptance. His body shudders at a fragment of memory, orange blossoms on the breeze.

“There is nothing to be sorry for.”

The scent of forgiveness.

 

~

 

It takes him two weeks and three drafts before he finally sends a message, includes a link of a cat shushing a noisy dog as it tries to sleep just in case.

Karim replies with eleven emojis, ending with a little red heart. Dani takes it to mean they’re okay now. Bit by bit, he fills in the map of Leverkusen in his head, a cafe here with strong espresso, a boutique there with custom snapbacks. There are bars he knows to avoid after matches and the only place within 45 miles that serves paella worth having. He invites the team there one night, after another week of coming to terms with the plan and a Skype session with Álvaro.

_You’re coming home for Christmas, right?_

_He’s grumpy today, has so far spent most of the call frowning at either the camera or the image of himself in the corner. Dani’s pretty sure he’s maximized the size of his own screen because he keeps fucking around with his hair._

_“Yeah, man, of course.”_

_“Dani?”_

_“Hmm?” he hums, scribbling another word in German on a flash card._

_“You watch our games yet?”_

_Dani freezes midway through the verb,_ erinnern _. Álvaro’s face is hangdog and earnest as he asks it. It would only take a handful of words to explain that no, he’s not ready yet, there are four years left on the contract he put his signature to. That it’s impossible for him to be fully here if his mind’s trapped on a pitch in Madrid. But the hope in his voice as he asks makes Dani unable to afford the truth._

_“Sometimes,” he hedges, finishes out the verb._

_“Good. You better keep up on your competition for when you get back.”_

_He always says it like it’s guaranteed, makes Dani wonder what happened to the shy, nervy kid from la cantera._

_“What’s new with you, man? Anything you wanna tell me?”_

Hoffen _, on the next notecard._

_His brow scrunches up, but he just shrugs, seems vaguely guilty. Dani would pry if he didn’t feel the same discomfort on his own end._

_“Wow, Álvaro, amazing,” he teases._

_“Asshole,” Álvaro accuses._

_“Always. Hey, I was thinking of taking the guys here out for paella. You think they’d be into that?”_

_“Who doesn’t like paella,” Álvaro demands, clearly affronted._

_Dani shrugs._

_“Just checking. I don’t want to fuck it up, the first time and all.”_

_“Someone once told me that the first time doesn’t have to be the last time. That if you don’t make it, you just keep going until you do.” He raises an eyebrow pointedly._

_“Sounds like a genius, that guy.”_

_“He’s an asshole.”_

_Dani lets out a sharp burst of laughter._

_“Dani, you talk to Nacho much?” The careful way he phrases that makes Dani glance up._

_“Sometimes, why?”_

_Álvaro shrugs, bites on the side of his thumb._

_“Just making sure you don’t fuck it up anymore.”_

_He flicks him off, then scribbles_ vergessen _next on the next card._

_“He misses you, man.”_

_Dani closes his eyes, head falling forward slightly so he can hide his face a little. He’s not sure he’s ready for Álvaro to see what’s there._

_“How do you know?”_

_When he chances a peek, Álvaro’s shrugs, nibbling on his thumbnail._

_“I can tell. I try to talk to him some, but.”_

_“But?” Dani asks, the stone in his belly rising choke off his breath._

_“I’m not you, Dani.”_

_The hand on his lap digs sharp nails into the flesh of his thigh. He can’t linger there, won’t get out otherwise._

_“Despite that, you’re alright. Hey, I gotta run, German lessons” he announces, writing down two words, then crossing them out._

_“Yeah, alright. Go study nerd.”_

_Dani waits until it disconnects before burying his face in his hands, reminding his body how to inhale and exhale so it feels more like breathing and less like drowning._

~~_Our_ ~~ _games._

 

~

 

A second ago, he could've sworn he had only just signed the contracts. Only he blinks, and suddenly Christmas morning arrives, chilly and cheerful. He burrows deeper under the covers, refuses to move from this bed that is cozy and warm.

His phone buzzes just to spite him.

Karim's holding a mistletoe and wearing red, which Dani supposes is festive enough. Only they're the tiniest pair of briefs he's ever seen and the sun glows over his bare skin in Doha. Dani nearly swallows his own tongue, reminds himself he can't use pictures from friends as fodder for filth.

There's a text from Álvaro reminding him he'll "murder him in his sleep" if he cancels on him tomorrow.

The entire ground floor smells like cinnamon and nutmeg, fragrant and inviting. He tries not to think of the picture Karim sent, thinks instead of seeing Nacho later that evening. It's easy to putter around the house, do whatever's needed to help with their dinner party.

Dani finds himself on salad duty, feels a disconcerting sense of deja vu when Pati joins him to help.

"Just like old times," she tells him. He leans his head onto her shoulder, rests there for a second.

"Except now I'm handsome and you're old," he reminds. She doesn't even glance his way before flicking his ear.

His grandfather's tucked into his armchair by the fireplace, a thick book in his lap. Dani perches on the arm, peeks over his shoulder.

"She was always too beautiful for me," he says proudly,  a smile working its way to his mouth. In the picture, she's mid-laugh, mouth wide open and head thrown back. His arm is around her slender waist, eyes only on her. Even in black and white, the brightness of his adoration is clear

"How did you know?"

His grandfather laughs, pats his knee.

"It was never even a question. Once you know,  you won't wonder if it's right. You'll wonder only how you got by before."

It's unsettling, how quickly his mind flits from his words to a specific memory. A hand squeezing his knee and the shared intimacy of empathy. He pours himself a glass of mulled cider to ignore that.

The chatter of guests rises and falls throughout the evening, but Dani can't make his mind still. It suddenly feels vitally important to know why Nacho had wanted to see him, just him, tonight.

The hours grind down reluctantly, restless making his foot tap against the kitchen floor, nails clicking against the countertop.

By the time it's 11, he's had enough mulled cider to send Karim a picture of himself in his new winter hat.

He's staring at the five heart-eyes emojis he sends in reply when there's a polite tap-tap on the glass. The knob's already turning before Dani reaches him.

It’s immediate and visceral, the sharp citrus, bursting bright and awake. More feeling than scent. He meets him face first, nose tucked into the hollow between shoulder and neck.

“Nacho,” he exhales, the whiskey making him tumble into the nearness of him, burrow deeper into it.

 

“Hey, Dani,” Nacho chuckles, arms slipping around his back. He pats his shoulders gently, leaves them there while waiting for him to let go. But Dani can’t, feels all of 12 again, his body more aware of how to make sense of the world than his heart. Everything a wild jumble beyond the pressing need to cling.

 _Missed you, missed you, missed you_ , his mind spins on a loop.

“You’re here, Nacho.”

All the promises he made to himself fall away in the way Nacho reaches a hand up, strokes it softly over his hair. Dani links his hands behind his back, breathes in deep, like he’s only just learned how.

“Welcome home, Dani.”

He means Madrid but Dani nuzzles closer into his throat and feels the words sink in.

 

~

 

It takes Nacho three glasses of mulled cider before they’re tearing through the backyard again, only emergency lanterns and twinkle lights illuminating their progress. Dani twists at one point and nearly topples headfirst into his mother’s rosebed, but Nacho grabs him by the wrist at the last second.

He moves into his body, but slips just as their torsos are about to touch, pushing the ball beyond Nacho’s reach.

“Unsportsmanlike!”

Dani cackles into the darkness, slides towards goal on his left foot and swings with his right. The ball goes up in the air and Dani falls flat to the ground, grass wet under his cheek.

Nacho’s by his side immediately, touches his face carefully, eyes concerned. Dani waves him off, the fall mostly broken by soft earth and his back. He pauses then sprints off. Dani blinks after him, watches as he kneels beside the cracked form of the gnome, hat and head no longer attached to his body.

Dani’s distraught, rolling over to sit up but Nacho cradles the broken body in his arms, carries it over to him.

“We can fix this, right?”

 

Dani looks up at him, the sincerity in his face. In the darkness, his eyes are cool gray and storm clouds, a winter morning brought to life. He flops over onto his back, arms and legs splayed on the grass.

“Mama can fix anything,” he promises.

“You’ll get your clothes dirty, Dani,” Nacho warns.

“I’ll buy new ones.”

Nacho carefully lays the pieces on the ground between them, then stares consideringly at Dani. A few seconds later, he’s laying beside him.

Dani points to a bright spot in the sky.

“What’s that one?”

“Which one?” Nacho asks.

“That one,” Dani repeats, gesticulates at the right spot.

“I don’t know.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

“I don’t know,” Nacho parrots. Dani glances over at him, finds Nacho looking his way. They both burst into laughter at the same time.

“Good thing we’re footballers,” Nacho reminds. He nudges Dani’s shoulder with his own.

“Hey, Dani, hey.”

“Hey, Nacho, hey.”

“Glad you’re here.”

He nods, stares at a cluster of nameless stars blinking light into the world.

“Me too, man.”

“You want to tell me anything?”

 _Everything_ , Dani thinks, but turns his heavy head in his direction. About Karim and his German tutor, who never holds back when she thinks he’s being lazy or an idiot. About the Japanese Garden and the knitwear shop and all the places that bring about a pang of memory. About losing threads of the life he imagined in order to catch the live the life that actually exists. About how there will be moments when missing him feels like a sharp, shooting pain that will never go away.

“You want to tell _me_ anything?” Hazily, through the fog of mulled cider, he remembers Nacho’s request to meet him. As if Dani had learned how to be less selfish of every bit of him since he left.

Nacho turns his head. Their shoulders are still touching, the line of warmth from there to their elbows. If he moved just a matter of inches, he could find Dani’s mouth with his own. All he would need to do is be brave.

Dani closes his eyes, takes a slow, deep breath.

“I’m getting married.”

The jagged edge of the porcelain gnome digs deep into Dani’s palm when he reaches out blindly, finds nothing but it.

 

~

 

His mother and grandfather fly out for his birthday. It’s his first time visiting, and he spends the first day finding fault with most things about the town. Only when Dani grumbles that yes, of course, Madrid is better, does he lay off. He’s far more agreeable the second day when Dani takes them to the garden. There’s a book tucked under his arm when he sinks down onto the wide bench. His mother flanks him on the other side, knitting needles peeking out of her bag.

“You want me to read to you, Dani?”

He can’t remember the last time someone read to him, probably a decade ago.

“Yes.”

He pushes his reading glasses higher up his nose and clears his throat.

_“A veces, uno cree que todo lo ha olvidado, que el óxido y el polvo de los años han destruido ya completamente lo que, a su voracidad, un día confiamos. Pero basta un sonido, un olor, un tacto repentino e inesperado, para que, de repente, el aluvión del tiempo caiga sin compasión sobre nosotros y la memoria se ilumine con el brillo y la rabia de un relámpago.”_

His deep, rich voice carries them forward into the evening, the rhythmic slide of his mother’s knitting needles touching as accompaniment.

He’d always believed that home was a place, the walls and floorboards and windows letting the light in. But what was more important than this, the sense of belonging? The rightness of falling into a piece of earth that would fit no one else’s body but his own?

Anywhere could become home, if he allowed it.

 

~

 

Karim rolls the dough into long lines, measures the ends to make sure they’re even. In his hand is a piece of plastic that vaguely resembles a guillotine.

“And what’s that one called?”

“Bench scraper.”

“Because?”

“Because,” he parrots before cutting off small chunks from the long roll.

He holds out a piece for Dani.

“And this is called a?”

“Schupfnudeln.”

Dani nods like he’d known that all along.

“Make yourself useful, yeah?”

There’s flour on the curve of his wrist, a spot high on his cheekbone. Dani’s been trying not to stare at it for long minutes, but the skin beneath it pinks up whenever he makes Karim laugh. It’s beginning to feel like a real feat.

“Alright, but when I burn the kitchen down, just remember that you asked me to help.”

Between Karim’s watchful eye and Dani’s laziness, which he insists is his caution, they manage to leave it intact, if less than spotless. He leans against the counter, elbows resting on the cold surface, as Karim flips the noodles in the air. They land perfectly back in the rich butter sauce he’s tossing them in.

Dani’s grumbling stomach accompanies them to the couch.

“We should eat at the table, on tablecloth,” Karim opines, staring balefully at the perfect plate of food, served on porcelain.

“Why, are we going to eat the tablecloth for dessert?” Dani taunts, falling into his corner of the couch. Karim shoves his toes into the side of his knee.

He’d be ashamed of the little noise he makes after a bite but it’s delicious, rich and full of flavor. He scoops another mouthful in before glancing at Karim

“Eat.”

“I will. I’m just glad you like it. It’s your first time.”

Dani coughs a little at that, gratefully accepts the beer Karim passes to him.

“It’s amazing. I burned my toast this morning and now I’m eating handmade…” He gestures for Karim to provide the name.

He does, with a soft chuckle.

“ _Schupfnudeln._ ”

“Exactly.”

The television’s turned down, but not quite mute. The background noise of a game faintly roaring to life makes this an even more familiar scene, even if it’s the first time with Karim’s cooking.

He’s halfway through the plate when Karim’s big toe jabs into his thigh.

“Ow, qué pasa?”

“Germany,” he reminds, carefully. He’s watching him like he does sometimes, like he’s peeling back the layers, ever assured there is more underneath for him to uncover.

“What?”

“Will you tell me his name?”

Dani’s hand freezes midway to his mouth, the noodles hanging in the air.

“There is nobody.”

“Dani,” he admonishes, but it’s mild.

“There isn’t,” he repeats earnestly. “It’s all me, it’s just me. It got jumbled up in my head, confused one thing for another. There isn’t anyone.”

It costs him something to say it aloud, but the truth will remain so whether he speaks it or not.

Karim’s eyes are softer than he’s ever seen them, face unspeakably sad.

“Dani.” Tucked between the beginning and the end, a small sliver of pity.

Dani shakes his head at him, reaches out across the space between them.

“You got some,” he mumbles, thumb brushing at the spot of flour on his cheek.

Karim’s hand flashes up, grip slipping around his wrist. He could overpower him easily, Dani realizes with no small thrill.

“Are you sure?”

Carefully, he shifts the plate back onto the table and slides forward, one knee pressing into the couch. He ducks his head, presses his nose into the side of his neck. Cinnamon, brown butter from the cooking, something clean like soap, and then warmth. He tugs the wrist Karim’s holding until he can tuck his fingers into the neck of his shirt.

He skims his nose up his jaw before hovering over his mouth, breath brushing against his lips.

“You were right.”

“What?” Karim wonders, eyes a little dazed, voice a little confused. Dani did that, he realizes, feels an immediate surge of delight.

“It’s my first time,” he announces before swinging his leg over his lap, climbing on. Karim’s hands find the back of his head, fingers sinking into his dark hair, and haul him in.

 

~

 

In the morning, their legs stick together a little, the comforter too warm, but Dani can’t make himself move. Karim’s body is heavy along his back, a barrier between himself and the past. It’s easy, to close his eyes and exist only here, with the lazy drags of his palm over his belly and the sun falling across his chest.

He rolls him over until Dani’s on his back, peering up at him curiously.

Karim’s eyes are a little sleepy still, dreamy and warm.

“Which first was better?” he wants to know.

Dani laughs full on into his face and Karim joins him, dropping his head against Dani’s chest. He threads his fingers through his thick, dark hair, his other hand skimming down his back.

He lifts his head long moments later, rests his chin on his sternum.

“He doesn’t even know what he’s missing, Dani.”

Dani’s hand trembles a little when it brushes the hair away from his temples, draws his mouth back up to his again. It’s viciously soft, their noses rubbing together first, then their lips. Just a glide of his tongue along the seam of Dani’s mouth, a wordless question. It’s overwhelming, a single tear slipping out of the corner his eye and down his earlobe.

When his lips fall apart in acquiescence, Dani finally, _finally_ feels himself settle into place.

 

~

 

By the time spring arrives, Dani’s looking at bigger apartments. He insists that the two he’s circled on the list so far being closer to Karim’s house have nothing to do with it. After seeing another place that he crosses off immediately, he’s driving to lunch when his phone rings. His agent’s number pops up, but Dani ignores it. If it’s important, he’ll leave a message.

Lars and Karim are already there when he arrives, bickering over who ate all the labne. Dani steals Karim’s drink and Lars’ olives while they vociferously disagree, then motions for a waiter to end the crisis. It’s easy, to slip into the background, let their voices rise and search out all the words he knows. The familiarity of that no longer draws out an excruciating pang. He had that, and now he has this.

He lingers longer than necessary, lets Karim press him into the side of the car and kiss his mouth until it’s the color of plump, ripe raspberries.

“Early training,” he reminds, mostly to himself before he lets himself get carried.

“Ugh, so responsible.” He kisses his cheek despite the grumbles. Dani grins, steals another kiss for the road. Karim pushes his hair back, blinks down at him. It makes Dani feel acutely vulnerable when he looks at him like this, like something to be cherished. The soft kiss to his forehead makes his legs wobble as he slides into his car.

He’s nearly in bed when he remembers, hits play on the message.

“Daniel, I have some exciting news for you, are you sitting?” His manager’s voice is tinny and cheerful as it plays on speaker.

“I know I told you not to get your hopes up, I know I told you to make plans for a while. But just 10 minutes ago, I finished an hour long talk with Senor Perez.”

He’s glad for the fact that he’s laying down, the shiver starting between the wings of his back. It skitters up his spine, makes him flinch full body with the force.

“You’re going home, Dani!”

He turns over onto his side, head hanging over the edge of the bed. Bile rises in his throat, the pressure of it ballooning inside of his head. His shaky fingers grab at the trash can, pull it up to himself. His stomach turns, but his mouth is empty, dry heaves wracking his body. The receptacle tumbles to the floor and Dani curls his knees into his chest, lets the sobs echo inside the emptiness of the room.

 

~

 

The first time he meets Isco, he tries to stick his finger up his butt. Dani supposes there are far worse introductions a person could make, but he can’t think of any of the moment. He’s glaring at this tiny wretched creature, offending finger firmly in his grip.

“What is wrong with you?” he shouts, but the kid’s not moved, still grinning like a loon.

“You had the ball. I wanted the ball.”

He explains it as though he’s sharing his infallible logic with a child.

“So you tried to put your finger in my butt?” he demands incredulously.

He shrugs.

“It worked.”

He nods towards the ball, the traitor laying right beside the kid’s feet.

“You do this during games?”

He stares for a moment, before tilting his head to the side like a confused puppy.

“Is the ref watching?” He grins after he says it, extremely proud of his own joke.

He flits from group to group, no shred of self-consciousness to him. Somehow, he ends up returning to Dani’s side at regular intervals. It would alarm him if he wasn’t reluctantly charmed. He has good feet, manages to control the ball gracefully when he’s keeping his hands to himself. It’s enough to make him admire him.

Whatever endearing qualities he may possess, he clearly lacks self-preservation instincts. At one point, he sidles up to Sergio and whispers something in his ear that makes the Andalusian throw back his head and cackle in delight. He doesn’t catch Iker’s glare of death, but Dani does. And Álvaro’s for that matter. Dani’s not sure how he managed to make Álvaro hate him on sight when he just arrived.

He’s halfway out the locker room when he hears his name called.

“Dani!”

Dani waits for him, hands in his pocket.

“What’s up with your tall friend? I don’t think he likes me much.”

“I don’t know, did you stick your finger up his butt too?”

“What, ‘too’? You wouldn’t even let me succeed.”

“Did you stick your finger up his butt, period?”

“Not yet,” Isco chimes in and Dani shoves at him, lightly, but the kid’s so small that he sways underneath it. He follows him to his car, and Dani half-expects him to jump in and demand to be taken home with him.

“Keep your hands to yourself, man!” He shouts through the window on his way out.

“We’ll see!” Isco promises.

Dani supposes there are worse people he could have for a friend.

 

~

 

It should feel the same, this city that has belonged to him his entire life. He knows every forgotten foot of it, each brick and twisting road, all the places he’s cried and laughed and felt alive. But it takes him a minute to get into the rhythm of a thriving metropolis, the traffic, the never-ending din of an urban sprawl, the fervor.

One night, he finds himself tossing and turning until 2 am, takes to driving the streets in the hopes of still the whirl of his mind.

He passes by the Bernabéu , sees the last of its people filing out for the night. It should sing through him, but it looms over him instead. He keeps going, the path familiar before he arrives at La Ciudad.

The guard on night duty spares him a look when he holds up his badge, waves him through. A lifetime of dealing with Real Madrid players has left him unsurprised. The pitch seems smaller when he finds it again, hands jammed into his pockets. The first step back feels like a continuation of a stride from ages ago. The grass springs just as before beneath his sneakers. At the edge of the field, there’s a deflated football waiting for him. It’s only halfway full, probably meant to be tossed but it moves just fine before his feet.

He sets off at a run down the middle, and it’s only this, only him and the darkness and the city breathing around his body. The wind picks up as he kicks it up in the air between his feet, throws his whole frame into keeping it off the ground. It nearly slams into the dirt but it falls favorably at his feet and Dani’s off like a crack, dashing towards goal with nothing but the fierce insistence that this was his.

That this _is_ his.

It slips so easily into the goal that Dani wondered how it hadn’t been there all along.

 

~

 

Like most important things, it happens while he’s not even paying attention. One moment, everything scrapes against his sensitive skin, leaves him feeling unbalanced. And the next, Nacho sends a ball that finds him through the feet of three people in a rondo. Suddenly, they’re ten and Nacho’s voice is all he can hear in the overwhelming roar of celebration. He pushes it off the side of his foot to Isco, but glances back in the direction it came from.

It’s a different smile, like he’s just discovered the existence of something he’d once thought lost to him forever.

But on a pitch in Madrid, Nacho smiles at Dani and Dani smiles back. Maybe some things are forever.

 

~

 

Maria is warm and lovely, welcoming when they invite most of the team over for dinner one night. She kisses both his cheeks, smiling and smelling of something light and floral.

“I’m glad to meet you finally,” she says, tone sincere. He offers her as much as he can, which is a small smile and a nod. She moves easily around the room, makes sure everyone has a drink, plays the hostess role to perfection.

Álvaro grabs his elbow and guides him to the bar, then steps behind it.

“Are you allowed to be there?”

“It’s Nacho’s house, man.” He stares at Dani like he just suggested they adopt a three-headed dog.

“Whiskey, neat.”

“I can make you a Jack and Coke.”

“Make me a Jack and Jack, in a glass.”

He’s on his second one, leaning against the wood, face in his palm when Nacho finds him. He squeezes his arm and it’s as horrible as ever, the touch sinking through layers of fabric.

“I’m glad you came, Dani.”

His smile’s a little crooked from the whiskey, but no less genuine for the wear. Nacho’s wearing a tie, and the nerves he showed earlier have smoothed away.

“Me too. You look happy, Nacho.”

His mouth’s upturned, brow smooth. Eyes like morning reflected on glass, releasing their own light.

“I’m happy, Dani.”

Dani turns his head, rests it against his shoulder. Nacho’s arm comes up immediately, some acquired reflex from decades together. The left arm lifts eventually, slides around his waist. This, the brightness of his cologne wafting in his head and their bodies moving together with a honed familiarity, is miles from what he wants, but so much closer than he was before.

 

~

 

The first time he steps out into the Santiago Bernabéu, his heart jolts awake inside of his body.

There’s no stopping the flashes of memory replaying inside his head, his father’s hand on his back, his grandfather’s words in his ear, his own frenzies screeching in anticipation. The fate of their day, even week, resting on the shoulders of 11 people before them. He knows that side of it intimately.

When the music starts up, he bows his head to it, but it’s overwhelmed immediately. Thousands of mouths opening in absolute devotion, in perfect unison as they make the promise. Somewhere in this stadium is his family, his grandfather beaming as he slipped the jersey with their family name emblazoned on the back. One for his mother, his father, his sister, and two friends from school. A whole row in the stadium just for Dani.

It’s heavy, and humbling, weighed down by the legacy of the past and the hope for the future.

But when the sea of white rises into the sky, becomes the whole of his world, everything becomes weightless with the promise of the present.

 

~

 

It takes the first loss of the season for Dani to come to terms with how desperately he wants this, even after everything. Like unearthing a fine silken kerchief beneath an irrevocable pile of rubble.

He starts staying after, runs into Cristiano and Marcelo more often than not. It’s the Brazilian who swings his arm around Dani’s shoulder and reminds him, “ _Hermano, if you’re not smiling, what’s the point of a win?”_ He winces at him, which sets Marcelo off, his laugh floating into the air.

One night, he’s running drills when a ball smacks him squarely in his shoulder. He jumps, shout on the tip of his tongue when he realizes who it is. The ball lands with a soft thump and Álvaro sets off with it, not even waiting for Dani to catch up.

“How’d you find me?”

Nacho grins, a little proud of himself.

“I asked your mom.”

“You always were her favorite.”

Now his face is smug, so Dani’s honor-bound to shove at it. An exuberant whoop of delight sounds from near the goalpost.

“We should go remind him the importance of being humble again,” Dani offers.

“Where would he be without us?”

Nacho steps to him, knocks their elbows together.

“Does it feel real yet?”

“Does it feel real to you?”

Nacho’s smirk is a little wry at the corners.

“You’ve started more games than me, Dani.”

He wants to disagree, but it’d be a lie if he did.

“It doesn’t.”

“Will it ever?”

“Yes,” Dani mouths. Whatever he’s gained by wisdom, he’s lost in terms of the absolute belief of youth.

“How will we know when it’s right?”

His grandfather’s voice filters through, finds him when he needs it.

“When it’s no longer a question.”

 

~

 

It’s a marathon of a season, the weeks and months creeping along past him without notice. For such a long while, it’s all sharp inhales and gasping gulps of air. Everyone in the room holding their breath, desperately afraid to jinx it by speaking it aloud.

It takes until the second leg of the semifinals, the slam of the away locker.

“Fuck this,” Iker mutters into the dip of silence. “We’re winning this whole damn thing.” Xabi and Sergio stare at him, half-wonderstruck and half-horrified at the words.

“What?” Fideo pipes up from his corner like he hasn’t heard right. He sticks his finger into his ear and exaggeratedly shakes it.

“We’re winning this whole fucking thing. Can’t you feel it? This is our year. This is it.”

Dani glances around the faces of everyone in the room, the way they grow more confident in their belief, shoulders straightening, smiles widening. As if they too have been afraid to speak the words out loud to themselves.

That game, Sergio pats the crest on Iker’s chest, then leans in to press their cheeks together. On his way to the bench, Nacho squeezes Dani’s shoulder.

When they take the pitch,  it is theirs from the first whistle.

 

~

 

He remembers just enough German to order the right beer when they go out to celebrate. Isco steals his bottles twice, before Dani finally threatens grievous bodily injury for his crimes. Álvaro helpfully drops by with drinks, shoves something into Isco’s hand, which he drinks gratefully. He smirks up at Álvaro from under his lashes, flicks his tongue suggestively around the tip of the straw.

 

Dani glances away, finds instead Sergio plastered to Iker’s side like a second skin. Iker lets him, an arm looped low around his waist. Maybe this is the real prize for netting a double against an old rival. On the dance floor, Marcelo and Casemiro are watching Luka’s moves with a mix of fascination and horror, his jerky gestures only grammatically able to be called a dance. But his whole body’s given itself to the music, the strobe lights flashing across his body.

Jesé’s somehow managed to worm his way into the dj’s both, flashes him a thumbs up before spinning another track. Nacho’s leaning against the bar, listening intently to whatever Xabi’s saying to him. Dani wanders into that conversation without meaning to, his feet stepping forward.

“You should do it, and you should do it while you’re young.”

Dani raises an eyebrow at Nacho, who mouths, “Help!” while Xabi rambles on. He’s had enough to drink that he only barely feels any remorse for grabbing Nacho by the wrist.

“Uhh, sorry, I’m feeling nauseous and I need Nacho to help me.”

“Oh, yes, yes he does! Sorry, Xabi.”

“We’ll finish this another time then. Be more careful, Dani."

“I’m sure he meant ‘feel better’,” Dani mutters under his breath. He doesn't stop until they're in a secluded stairwell, grateful for the air conditioning.

“What’s it like being back in Germany so soon?”

Dani shrugs.

“I never cared much for Munich.”

“But you liked Leverkusen?”

He nods slowly, takes a long gulp of his drink.

“Is that why you don’t talk about it?”

He glances up sharply, licks the excess beer off his mouth. Nacho’s eyes follow the motion, before meeting his gaze. Reluctantly, he nods.

“Is that why you’re holding yourself back now?”

Dani’s eyes slam shut, heel of his free hand pressing into his eye. There’s a sob unfolding inside of his mouth, but he tries to swallow it down.

“Fuck,” he mumbles.

“Dani.”

For nine months, he’s kept his head down, allowed himself to feel sparingly. Focusing instead on the work, on earning his place here. On proving that he not only wants it, but deserves it. The whole world kept at an arm’s length because if he lets himself feel now, he’ll have to confront the feelings in the past.

Telling Lars he was leaving. His last tutoring session in German. Karim’s face in the early morning light, just a few hours before his flight, as inconsolable as Dani had felt.

“How do you know? How the fuck do you always know?”

“You left, Dani.”

The words underneath the words, which are, _And I didn’t_. As if he’s been here all along, waiting for Dani to find his way here again.

“I thought it was for five years,” he explains, feels a bit like an apology.

Nacho’s hand is warm against the side of his neck and Dani tilts into it, closes his eyes. The sob slips between his teeth as he notches his fingers around Nacho’s wrist.

“You’re back here now. Come back, Dani.

 _I'm trying_ , Dani thinks.

 

~

 

He’s hunched over on the bench, the bones in his body going limp anytime he sits for more than five seconds. There’s an armband in his hand that he keeps wringing, head bowed in reverence. If he thinks about it, it starts up again: the tightness in his chest, the tension building like thunder, the slow rising tide of tears behind his eyes.

Cristiano pats his back soberly, offers his condolences again, even though he already had a somber flower arrangement so extravagant that his mother had nearly smiled at it. He nods in thanks, turns back to the length of fabric in his hand.

There are things he has learned to do over the years, tying his shoelaces, knowing how long to wait before getting a haircut, filing his taxes. But living without his grandfather is not one of them. It sets him off again, heels digging into his eyelids as the choked off sound slips from his mouth.

His arm comes up around Dani’s back, and he can’t help it, turns blindly into his chest. Hands fisting in the fabric of his training jacket, the sobs muffled against the fabric. Perhaps it’s most comforting that he doesn’t offer Nacho any words, lets whatever’s wracking Dani’s body escape through his lips and batter his chest. It aches in a way nothing else can, makes him feel hollowed and left empty after, a carcass meant to be discarded.

When he finally manages to lift his head, eyes and nose heavy from the tears, he shakes it. Nacho wipes the wetness away with the sleeve, like Dani’s some child in the supermarket. It sets him off laughing before he realizes, sobs nestled somewhere between the sounds. Nacho chuckles sheepishly before running off to get tissues.

He blows his nose, gathers his breaths until his heart steadies some.

“He’s my first memory here. He’s the reason I’m here,” he manages, voice broken and words cracking.

Nacho hands runs up his back and cups the scruff of his neck, thumb rubbing along his bare skin.

“And now his memory will be the reason you prove your worth here every day. He was already so fiercely proud of you. Every time you succeed, every time you do your best to live up to that, you honor his memory.”

Dani nods, hands uselessly lifting in the air.

“I just want him back,” he whimpers helplessly, childish in his grief.

Nacho hand slides across his chest, pats the jersey. Over the crest, right above the heart, the gesture thumping against his rib.

“He’s right here. Forever.”

In the tunnel, he struggles to breathe, another sob rising haphazardly even as he chokes one down. The team offers him a touch here, an arm squeeze there, a pat to the back to remind him of their presence. Isco grabs his head and drags it down to kiss his ear. It’s almost time for the final whistle when Nacho cups his elbow, Dani blinking in confusion.

Slowly he slips the black armband up, over the jut of his elbow, and then all the way over his bicep. His grip squeezes Dani’s hand, hard and insistent enough that it nearly aches, reminds Dani of his presence. He leans close, rests his cheek against Dani’s for a second.

It’s cool and clean, the summer bright scent of him washing over Dani. His eyes close as Nacho grips the armband, presses his thumb in so Dani can focus on the physical pressure of that and not the rest.

“You are everything he could have ever wished for.”

It’s soft as a breath and nearly makes Dani crumple, but Nacho is there, bears the weight of Dani as he sways for a second. Carefully, he leans back, just enough to cup his face in his cheeks and kiss his forehead, just as his grandfather used to.

Outside, the noise of the stadium is as deafening as ever, the crowd energetic and demanding of entertainment. Strangely, the call to duty is comforting, reminds Dani how much things remain the same even in the face of tragedy. In the center, they form a half-circle, Dani flanked by Illarra and Gareth on either side.

On a spring day in May, the booming voice of the announcer recites his name over the Bernabéu, Eliseo Carvajal Mateos.

And that single phrase makes the impossible happen. Silence spreads like a secret over the stadium. Dani can hear the breath whooshing out of his lungs, feels tears pricking at the back of his eyes, pooling at the corners. Illarra squeezes his side through his jersey in support.

In that singular moment, the whole of the Bernabéu and his heart in perfect harmony, still and steady in honoring his memory.

Dani blinks up to the sky, vision blurring, and whispers only a prayer of gratitude for having had him at all. In the golden amber of that moment, a prayer from what feels like a thousand years ago is answered.

Dani belongs.

 

~

 

Time moves differently in ecstasy than in grief, Dani learns. The days slow down for weeks, only muscle memory and duty carrying him through. Then, suddenly, they’re in Lisbon and the dream of

La Décima is in their hands. By the time it passes to Dani, the big ears are warmed by the hands of his teammates. He’s sobbing as he lifts it into the air, brandishes it for the world to see. It feels half hallucination, half a glimpse into a future where anything might be, where nothing is impossible anymore.

In Madrid, Cybele watches over their victory, austere and ever a little smug, as if she had known all along they would return to her, jubilant and wreathed in glory. As if she was asking only, _what took you so long?_

That night, he’s pretty sure that Isco and Xabi have an unspoken contest to see who can be more rowdily drunk. Xabi’s winning, slips in a pool of beer near the entrance of the club. Somehow, it’s the scrawny form of Dima that saves him from mood.

Inside the club, Dani drinks whatever finds its way into his hands, can’t feel anything beyond elation. Marcelo drags him to dance and he goes willingly, pretending not to notice Isco and Álvaro grinding against one another two feet away. He’s not sure when that happened, but it doesn’t surprise him in the slightest. Nor Marcelo, who whistles at them, then flashes them a thumbs up.

“Where’s Nacho?”

Marcelo shrugs, Dani frowning at the answer.

“I’ll be back.”

He finishes whatever’s in his glass in a single gulp, then wanders through. He’s not in the lounge area where Sergio is all but sitting in Iker’s lap, laughing delightedly at whatever story Cristiano’s telling Fabio. Or at the bar, where Karim and Raphael are ordering shots for a group of girls. Or in the bathroom where Dani splashes water on his face, sways a little before realizing how fantastically drunk he is.

Outside, the smell of springtime rain clears his senses a little. He’s leaning against the wall, head tipped back, like he’s watching the sky.

“Hey.”

Nacho’s head turns, a little crook of the mouth offered as Dani finds him there.

“Dani,” he announces, eyes a little glazed like he’s had as much to drink as Dani.

“What are you doing here?”

He smiles, knowing and playful.

“This is the club,” he claims, apropos of nothing. Dani chuckles a little bashfully.

“I’m too drunk to understand, Nacho,” he shrugs, shuffles until he’s in front of him.

“The club! Where I got drunk. And called you, when you wouldn’t call me.”

Realization dawns on Dani in bits and pieces, haphazard, but he remembers the middle of the night call.

“This is the club?”

Nacho nods, arms crossed over his chest, sways back and forth against the wall.

“This is the club.”

“Why did you call me that night?” Dani finds himself asking.

“Because I missed you,” he replies, like it’s obvious. “Why didn’t you call me before then?”

Dani’s heart thunders beneath his button-up, aches in that way he’s become accustomed to when he thinks of Nacho. Somehow so close and yet, just out of reach.

“Because I missed _you_ ,” Dani admits, shoving his hands into his back pockets.

“So?” Nacho demands.

“So?” Dani parrots, unsure of what he means. He wonders if Nacho’s more drunk than he thought, but he’s not slurring, not falling over his own two feet.

“So what? I miss you all the time.”

Dani feels it like a pounding below his ear, a hammering beneath his ribcage. Raucous and riotous, reckless.

“What?”

“I,” Nacho points at his chest, “miss you,” then at Dani’s. “All the time.”

“I’m right here, Nacho.” Carefully, he reaches out, cups his hand between his and draws it until his palm is resting against his chest. “I’m right here.”

He shakes his head, hand fisting in the fabric before dragging Dani in. He stumbles a little, falls into Nacho’s body. The scent of oranges rising like vine along an ancient relic. His palm comes up by his head to brace himself. There are only inches separating their mouths.

“You’re getting married, Nacho.” It feels like a punch to the gut every time he thinks it, but there’s no other way around.

Nacho shakes his head, a hand sliding up to curl around his waist.

“That’s not. It’s not the same. That’s not me and you,” Nacho explains. Dani can feel his breath against his lips, the sweetness of whatever he’s been drinking and the mint of his gum.

“What is me and you?” His voice sounds strange, the tremble of his hands clear in the sound.

“You’re my best friend, Dani,” he declares, the other hand sliding along his neck. He touches Dani’s face reverently, his cheeks, the scruff of his beard, the slope of his mouth.

“You’re my favorite person,” Nacho tells him, with absolute certainty.

Dani makes some strangled, wounded noise on the way, but he doesn’t stop himself this time. Only inches between and Dani leaps across, mouth sinking needily into Nacho’s. His hand cups the side of Dani’s face, thumb stroking his skin all the while his lips part beneath Dani’s. One moment Dani’s gasping into the kiss, tongue sliding along his bottom lip, and the next he’s flipped, Nacho pressing him back into the wall, the hand on his hip sliding inside his shirt.

“Nacho, Nacho, Nacho,” Dani chants. His heart stutters between his ribs, rattles and rumbles and makes an awful din. Nacho presses the whole length of his body against Dani’s, thumb still skimming along his cheekbone. He dips his head, lets the tips of their noses brush together first lightly, then carefully presses his mouth to Dani’s.

“Dani, Dani, Dani,” he whispers, a little teasing. He lifts his head, and in the sliver of light, Nacho’s eyes are seafoam at sunrise, the moment before everything comes alive. When his mouth finds Dani’s again, he sinks into it.

There, pinned between Madrid and Nacho, Dani finds his way home.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i hallucinated this fic, i have no memory of how it happened because when i started writing it, it was only three scenes and then...t h i s. eventually, i'll add in links because 90% of this is real true shit that happened. for now, please enjoy!
> 
> a huge thanks to the co-mods of this exchange for their endless patience, support, and...flexibility with deadlines! you guys are treasures to the fandom. 
> 
> [insert 56 links to tumblr gifsets]  
> [wait, this one's super important to me because it spawned like 5k i hadn't planned originally so [ please look at this picture ](https://68.media.tumblr.com/531b778e52ef377365121801530e372e/tumblr_nldfei5xb71qhrp3xo4_r1_500.png) that ruined my life]
> 
> if you leave me a comment, you are a precious buttercup who deserves all the best things in life.


End file.
